Escape to Darkness
by kmfrank
Summary: After Voldemort's resurrection, Harry awakens to a cold stone floor. After years of toiling with a "reformed" dark wizard willing to aid his revenge, Harry escapes from Nurmengard and finds that the Wizarding world has changed...
1. Prologue

_**Escape to Darkness: Chapter One**_

_Prologue_

Harry felt his feet slam into the ground; he fell forward despite being mostly uninjured, unlike Cedric. He let go of the Triwizard Cup as he snapped up his wand and lit it with a whispered, "_Lumos_."

"Where are we?" Cedric hissed. He too had gotten up – the Hufflepuff was stubborn and determined, if nothing else. Harry certainly hadn't been impressed with any spellwork he'd seen from the other boy's wand. Not that his own was particularly NEWT-worthy.

Harry looked up and took in his surroundings. They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they had obviously traveled miles - perhaps hundreds of miles - for even the mountains surrounding the castle were gone. They were standing instead in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside.

Cedric looked down at the Triwizard Cup and then up at Harry.

"Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?" he asked.

"Nope," said Harry. He was looking around the graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. "Obviously this is the part where the real Hogwarts champion kills the other and returns victorious, eh?"

Cedric snorted and let out a nervous chuckle as he cast an almost wary eye at Harry. "Wands out, d'you reckon?" Harry, who was already holding a lighted wand, merely raised an eyebrow at the older student. Cedric might have looked a little sheepish as he pulled out his wand, and silently cast a light charm. Harry tried to contain his jealousy and vowed to learn nonverbal casting soon.

Harry kept looking around him. He had, yet again, the strange feeling that they were being watched.

"Someone's coming," he said suddenly.

Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watched the figure drawing nearer, walking steadily toward them between the graves. Harry couldn't make out a face, but from the way it was walking and holding its arms, he could tell that it was carrying something. Whoever it was, he was short, and wearing a hooded cloak pulled up over his head to obscure his face. And - several paces nearer, the gap between them closing all the time - Harry saw that the thing in the persons arms looked like a baby ... or was it merely a bundle of robes?

Harry glanced sideways at Cedric while keeping his wand trained. Cedric shot him a quizzical look. They both turned back to watch the approaching figure.

It stopped beside a towering marble headstone, only six feet from them. For a moment, Harry and Cedric and the short figure simply looked at one another.

And then, without warning, Harry's scar exploded with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in all his life; he somehow maintained his grip on his wand and retained most of his facilities despite it. Somehow, he almost knew what was going to happen next; from Cedric's perspective, it must have looked as though Harry had preternatural reflexes.

From far away, above the heads of the boys, was heard a high, cold voice, "Kill the spare."

Harry had already brought his wand toward Cedric, who caught the movement and his eyes widened in betrayal. "_Depulso_!" Cedric, hit by the banishing charm, was flung sideways, just as a swishing noise and a second voice, which screeched the words to the night: "_Avada Kedavra_!"

A blast of green light blazed through Harry's eyelids, which zoomed by where Cedric had been just a moment before. Harry jumped to Cedric's side, and then glimpsed the shining Triwizard Cup behind them.

"Cedric, grab the cup and let's get the bloody hell out of here!" Harry hissed. Cedric nodded sharply and let loose another nonverbal spell as he pointed his wand at the cup. The gleaming trophy flew towards the boys, who reached out for it together.

The other figure, however, had seen through their strategy and hissed, "_Accio_ Potter!"

Just before Harry and Cedric were able to grab the Portkey home, Harry was tugged to the side toward the black robed figure; Cedric turned his head and yelled, "No, Harry!" before the cup reached his hand and he disappeared with a whirl and the sound of a light wind blowing.

Harry's blood froze in that instant as he saw his only likely escape route clearly cut off. His opponent took advantage of this inattentiveness by calling out, "_Incarcerous_!" Thick black ropes bound Harry's legs and torso, pinning his arms to his side. Somehow he managed to keep a tight hold of his wand the entire time.

Before he could resist, Harry found himself floating towards a rather large headstone that he could vaguely see was labeled "TOM RIDDLE". While he wasn't surprised at his captor being revealed as Voldemort, he nonetheless batted down a ball of fear that was forming in his belly. Waiting until more ropes had securely tied him to the headstone, he shouted, "_Diffindo_!" with all his might, wiggling his wand in a crude approximation of the requisite wand movement. Thankfully, it was enough, as his fear was temporarily abated as he found his lower body free of the constrictive ropes.

His captor, garbed in a black cloak and now visibly carrying a bundle of rags in his arms, turned and scowled furiously. Between the rough scraggly blonde beard, poxy skin, and the finger missing on the hand holding the swaddling cloths, Harry realized that it was Wormtail who had captured him. Harry quickly recast the Severing Charm on the ropes binding his upper body and managed to stutter off a "_Stupefy_," before he was hit again with at least two hexes – one of them might have been an Impediment Jinx – and was immobilized.

He realized that ropes were once again restraining him as he heard a cold, high voice hiss, "The boy is too dangerous to be kept conscious, Wormtail! Stun him, and Nagini will bite him to ensure a lack of interruptions!" The voice seemed quite raspy.

"_Nagini_," the same voice called out, "_Bite the child. He need only be alive a few minutes._" Harry furiously called out to the snake opposing orders as a last ditch effort.

"_No, don't bite me! Bite something else – maybe the only non-Parselmouth?_" The snake ignored his command and sank its fangs deeply into his leg, but Harry did not expect the bewildered face to pop up from under the swaddling cloths in Wormtail's arms.

A red light bursting from Wormtail's wand ensured that Harry knew no more.

oooOOOooo

Harry woke up alone, with his cheek pressed against a cold stone floor.

He ached. All over, his body was sore. It hurt to move, but he disregarded that fact and made to get up.

'I_ guess the Cruciatus Curse leaves a bloke a bit sore afterward_,' He thought wryly. His left forearm was covered in blood; it originated from his elbow, which had thankfully stopped leaking and was clotted over. Apparently he'd gotten no medical attention since Voldemort reclaimed his wand and stunned Harry. Harry wasn't quite sure why Voldemort had left him alive – as far as Harry could tell, his being alive was a mistake made fourteen years ago that Voldemort had been trying to correct ever since – but finally gained the presence of mind to look around at his new surroundings. His eyes had apparently adjusted to the dim light, because he could see fairly well.

Grey stone made up the floor, walls, and ceiling. Each block was larger than his head. A solid wooden door – and it was solid, not even vibrating when Harry slammed himself against it – was to the right side of one wall, and that was about the only thing that broke up the monotonous décor of the cell. At least it didn't lack space; he estimated it was nearly twenty feet in one direction and almost as much, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, along the wall with the door. The ceiling was high, perhaps as much as twelve or fifteen feet, Harry didn't know. Nearly ten feet up along the wall opposite the door was a hole through which shined a stream of light that projected a circle of luminescence in the middle of the cell; Harry could not actually see outside from the angle, but took comfort in the fact that he was not imprisoned hundreds of feet underground where he might suffocate for Voldemort's pleasure, or some similarly gruesome death.

There was precious little decoration in the room, despite its size – larger than any bedroom Harry'd ever had by nearly double. To one side of the door there was a bucket whose function Harry guessed – sure enough, it Vanished anything that was put inside, as he emptied his bladder as a test. Along the wall to the left of the door was a bookshelf with exactly four books on it; Harry would naturally read them in the coming days and months, but for now skimmed over them. A small three-legged stool was the only other decoration – the remains of a bed, apparently blasted apart when his captors imprisoned Harry, were askew across the room, but a pallet appeared serviceable on the floor. Harry lay down on it, his mood darkening as the reality of the situation descended upon him.

The question, '_Why am I still alive? Why didn't Voldemort kill me?_' occupied Harry's thoughts for the rest of the evening. He was quite certain that starvation was to be in order, until with a 'pop', a metal plate appeared near the door with mashed potatoes, some kind of chunky meat Harry couldn't identify, and vegetables all mixed together on it. Next to it was a pitcher of cool water. If his eleven years with the Dursleys had taught him anything, it was that food should never be turned away; Harry eagerly dug in, not knowing how regularly he would be fed in this prison.

oooOOOooo

His feeding schedule turned out to be once daily. As far as Harry could tell by the stream of light, he was fed just before nightfall, perhaps six or seven in the evening.

At least, when he first began his imprisonment, it was just before nightfall.

He'd never started keeping track of the days, perhaps believing that he was better off not knowing, but he noticed now that once more his dinner came just before nightfall – he supposed it was nearly a year since his imprisonment began, then.

This revelation had initially launched him into a deep despair, and he hadn't felt like rising from his bed for most of the next day. Initially he got over that, of course; his bed smelled terrible enough without him spending even more time stinking it up by laying about in it, and prison only drove him to deeper depression if he didn't at least attempt to occupy himself in some way.

It was his isolation with the Dursleys that allowed him to cope as well as he had, he privately thought – since his early childhood he'd been dreaming up fantasies and was unable to tell anyone about them, so this was not all that different.

Of course, Harry's isolation was not as complete as it could be. Upon his initial imprisonment, he would see visions nearly every night – horrible, violent visions that he almost suspected at first of being horrible crimes he'd committed and forgotten that had landed him in prison.

Later, he deduced the truth, from hours of reflection and consideration. They were not his crimes, but Voldemort's. He was seeing through Voldemort's eyes.

Most nights he saw visions, they were similar. Voldemort and a large group of Death Eaters – usually upwards of ten – Apparated to a house. Oftentimes it was a normal-looking house, which wouldn't have been too out of place on Privet Drive. Inside the house were some wizarding family who didn't have the right blood – a few times it was a Pureblood who'd married a muggle – and they were cursed and killed by Voldemort and his gleeful Death Eaters. The worst part of the visions was feeling Voldemort's emotions during the killings. Particularly once the Dark Lord knew that Harry could see them – the result of a particularly furious Harry who'd raged at Voldemort while he flayed Madam Bones, the aunt of his classmate Susan, into a bloody pulp; surprisingly, he'd left the potent witch alive afterward, no doubt traumatized.

Harry'd become mostly immune to the grisly scenes after only a few months of seeing them repeatedly. After that numbing immunity arrived, Harry found that disinterest in the images, which allowed him to force them out of his mind, granted him some peace. Even Voldemort seemed to think that it was no longer fun after Harry stopped getting upset at the visions. Not to say that Harry didn't feel the same cold fury every time an innocent was slaughtered by a nearly giggling Voldemort; he just banished the feeling and tried to focus on reading one of the same four books he'd already memorized yet again, perhaps reciting a particularly interesting passage.

_Troublesome Transfigurations for Townwitches_ was not a particularly fascinating read for Harry when he was first imprisoned, but that changed as he was able to consider and appreciate how nice it would be to change his own rough-hewn, three-legged stool into a comfortable lounge chair, perhaps, or his straw pallet into a nice four-poster like he'd slept in at Hogwarts.

_Charming Charms_ always reminded Harry of Gilderoy Lockhart when he picked it up, and he smiled in remembrance of how annoyed he'd been, always acting the banshee, werewolf, vampire, hag, or ghoul about to be vanquished by his Professor. He was quite sure Gilderoy used the hair styling charm detailed within to get that slight curl of his bangs.

_Enchantments in Baking_ was a book that Harry swore he remembered Mrs. Weasley owning when he'd gone to their house, but couldn't be certain – regardless, he always read it in fond remembrance of his adopted family who had, he was sure, missed him while he was gone this year.

_A Guide to Medieval Sorcery_ was the final book in Harry's cell, and it was this one that he admittedly spent the most time perusing. He'd used it in preparation for the tournament with Hermione, he remembered. Before the second and third task, if he did recall correctly. Ironically he could now relate to the need for several of these spells he'd previously deemed "useless": spells to mask one's own scent, to dampen a sense of smell, and several different kinds of cleaning spells – caked on grime wasn't affected much by a standard _Scourgify_. Harry had always before taken for granted the existence of toiletries for personal grooming; a luxury that this prison certainly didn't allow – the conjuration for such toiletries would have been the height of luxury, in his opinion.

It was another day like every other – on this particular one, Harry was still gathering rogue feathers from around his cell from when a bird of some kind had come into his cell and promptly added to his daily conglomerate of food – when Harry first heard the scratching.

It was odd, because no rats scuttled around the prison; Harry had even been shocked when the little bird made it in, because he had suspected it to be charmed with some kind of "Rodent-Repelling Charm", if such a thing existed.

The scratching, Harry quickly deduced, was coming from beneath the wall to the right of the door, slightly underneath. It had gotten more persistent over the three days he'd heard it fairly continuously, and he realized that it must have been another person, another prisoner!

For the first time since early in his incarceration, he entertained thoughts of eventual escape.

He was still harboring those thoughts on the fourth day, when, as he was intently staring – somewhat madly, of course, after a year of solitary confinement – at the spot from where the scratching was emanating. Finally, a square of rock – little more than a slab of slate, from its looks – moved upward as a head raised it from underneath.

An old man he was, Harry saw; dirty too, though that was not unexpected from being in prison and digging. He had a wild mane of white hair, no grey intermixed that Harry could see. His features were gaunt, skeletal, even, and somewhat weary as his head emerged further and he stared at Harry, who was still staring at where he emerged, looking the man straight in the eye, where vivid green met light blue. The intruder quirked a bit of an eyebrow before speaking.

"Ah…it seems I picked the wrong direction, then. How unfortunate." The man seemed to grow even wearier at this declaration. "It can be maddening when you have a 50/50 chance and choose incorrectly, can't it?" Harry still didn't respond to the other's attempt at a conversation. After all, it had been at least a year, and because of that, Harry wasn't entirely certain he'd retained his sanity. Had his fantasies of being back at Hogwarts with his friends finally driven him mad?

"What's the matter boy?" The old man said, setting the tile across his head on the floor and climbing out of the sizable hole now in Harry's floor. His voice was low and gravelly.

"I'm just…" Harry began in a voice raspy from disuse, "still not entirely certain that you aren't a figment of my imagination."

The old man broke into a grim smile, revealing a complete lack of teeth, and chuckled a moment, before replying, "I could tell you I'm not, but then I suspect that a figment of your imagination might do the same." The old man arose entirely from the tunnel and dusted his rags off slightly, keeping most of the dirt off of Harry's floor courteously.

"Now, why don't we pretend for the moment that I do, in fact, exist, and introduce ourselves? I am prisoner number Thirteen, unluckiest of the bunch as my predecessors One through Twelve managed to die quite some time ago, while I yet remain imprisoned." While there was a bit of a glint in the old man's eye as he said this, there was only a small bitter smirk on his face indicating a joke.

"Uh…I'm Harry. I don't know what my prisoner number is or anything." Harry, remembering his manners but feeling quite odd, stuck out his hand in greeting. His handshake was not returned, but merely stared at somewhat judgmentally before Harry dropped it.

"I've been here about a year now," Harry continued somewhat lamely. Still, the old man was doing nothing but staring at him dispassionately. "I'm not quite sure how I ended up here. I'm not a criminal or anything, I've just had the Dark Lord after me most of my life, and he finally caught up to me. Next thing I knew, here I was." Harry finished. The old man nodded slightly as Harry finished.

"You can call me Gelgrin. I've been imprisoned here for fifty years," Harry blanched disbelievingly, and not a bit despairingly at this, "for a multitude of crimes. I've heard of this so-called 'Dark Lord' – from Britain, correct?" The old man paused, then added, "must be quite the wizard to have earned that title."

Harry found his fist tightening of its own accord at this "acclaim" of Voldemort. In but a moment, he banished the ball of righteous fury he found wrenching his stomach and remembered what he'd learned in his year of incarceration – if he didn't let things bother him, they weren't in his mind. Gelgrin was still staring at him intently, but Harry wasn't sure what he was looking for.

"Yes, he's terrorized much of the British Isles for a while now. A decade, then he disappeared for a decade, and he was recently returned. The day I was imprisoned, in point of fact. I imagine he'll be making a bid for full control of Wizarding England soon." Harry watched as Gelgrin seemed to shrug nonchalantly.

"Hmm, interesting. I suppose I now have a proposition for you, young Harry. You see, I have spent the past ten years of my life crafting this tunnel behind me. As you can see, I chose to tunnel in the incorrect direction, and instead of passing through a gap in the protections lining the prison to the North Sea beyond, I arrived underneath your cell. In the other direction from my cell lies a cave that should be the only escape from this rock to the closest village of Oost-Vlieland, in the Netherlands. Quite a swim, but prisoners can't be choosers. Since my mistake included you accidentally – and since you are, as you put it, not a criminal and thus wrongfully imprisoned – you could help me dig and lead to a faster escape for both of us." Harry hesitated only a moment, considering that this was a dangerous criminal who, by his own admission, was rightfully imprisoned for fifty years.

"Of course." He said with his jaw tightened - who knew what kind of devil he'd just made a deal with. The mocking smirk of the skeletal old man resumed as he turned around without a word and crawled back into the hole from which he emerged. Wondering if he was supposed to follow, Harry scrambled into the hole after a moment.

oooOOOooo

Harry's time in the prison was not, he reflected, normal.

After all, he'd merely woken up one day in an unfamiliar place, stripped of his belongings and freedom. It had taken some time to work out the specifics that other inmates would know before their incarceration – why they were there, expected behavior, and such. Because of this, along with Harry's own tendency to leave things unchanged, probably a remnant from his time at the Dursleys', where nothing belonged to him, Harry's cell remained almost exactly the same as it had the day he arrived.

Gelgrin's cell, by comparison, seemed like an extraordinary place.

Writing lined each and every wall – advanced runic designs Harry couldn't make sense of, mostly, but were fascinating nonetheless – and the entirety of it was filled with things. Instead of the single small bookshelf that Harry had, Gelgrin had three – one was filled with traditional-looking books like Harry had been given to help pass the time, only there were dozens lining the shelf; the other two were stacked to the brim with rolls of parchment. A leak coming from the ceiling had been turned into a supply of water for Gelgrin, who even as Harry looked around washed some of the muck from the tunnel off his face and wrung out his hair. He even had a thin towel which he used and wrung out into the waste bucket.

Harry at first thought Gelgrin's bed had been destroyed like Harry's own when he saw the pallet lying on the bare floor, but as he looked around he realized that Gelgrin must have disassembled it himself for spare wood to build, for instance, the small table at which the stool – which had a back to it like a chair – sat in the stream of light that shone in as in Harry's room.

"This room is incredible!" Harry finally croaked out in awe, his voice still raspy. Gelgrin did not smile in reply, but merely said, "You must have led a rather poor life if a prison cell can be described as 'incredible', boy."

Harry reddened in embarrassment as the slight chastise, and corrected, "I mean in comparison to my own. I mean, look at all the things you have! Dozens of books, and rolls of parchment – are those your own writings? And the table you must have made out of your bed. And the bowl to catch the dripping water!" Harry said, pointing out the highlights. Also of interest were the myriad of steel tools Gelgrin had placed on the table that Harry saw were used for digging. Sharp tools, hammer-like tools, and what looked like a trowel all were there; also there was a thick candle in a metal tray.

"Given half a century, one does what they can with what they are given. Until a year ago, I was provided a new book each year, along with as much parchment, ink, and as many quills as I requested. I even was able to converse with the guards that made daily rounds, and was friendly with more than a few of them throughout my time here. What changed, I cannot say for certain, though the fact that your arrival coincides with the change is…curious, to say the least. I should think that learning about you might give me some insight into the matter." Gelgrin said finally, drawing a cupful of water from the bowl and seating himself at the table. There was no chair opposite him, but Harry stood there anyway.

"Uh…well, where can I start? My name's Harry Potter." He looked for recognition in Gelgrin's eyes, but saw none so he continued quickly, "And Voldemort has been trying to kill me since I was a year old. He killed my parents but was somehow stopped," Harry intentionally left out the suspicions of Dumbledore and Voldemort here as to what "stopped" the Dark Lord, "and ever since I attended Hogwarts when I turned eleven, he or his followers have tried to kill me every year. Right before I got here, he used me as part of some kind of ritual where he got a new body." Gelgrin looked somewhat intrigued, but didn't push Harry to continue.

"Mmm," the old man said darkly. "Now, let us discuss the first thing of real importance – our eventual escape from the inescapable Nurmengard." Harry's ears perked up at this bit of information and tucked it away.

"Now," Gelgrin continued, "my method was to dig for around 8 hours each day until weariness overtook me. I think between the two of us, a solid 12 to 14 hours each day is not unreasonable; the work will also go faster with one of us holding the candle while the other digs. It is…backbreaking work, terribly difficult and uncomfortable to boot. I do not mean to discourage you, but you must realistically understand that." Harry nodded in acceptance.

"Because of that, we'll go through our light more quickly than before, so I'll require that you too shave off the fat on the meat provided in your meals and use it along with mine to make the candle larger. You can also provide…" At this, Gelgrin glanced curiously at Harry's hair. Harry had never taken note of it before, of course, but as he raised a hand to it, it was the same length and messy style it always had been; ever since that bout of accidental magic back when he lived at Privet Drive.

"I use hair for the wick of the candle, Harry." Gelgrin said, not speaking the question he was asking.

"It seems that whenever my hair is removed – cut off, burned off or whatever – it grows back pretty quick. Stems from a bit of accidental magic back from when I was a kid." Harry said.

"Convenient, I'm sure. Since you are young, I assume you are at best a half-trained schoolboy?" Gelgrin continued. Reflecting upon what he'd seen done in the Tournament and by other wizards he knew, Harry thought the description adequate.

"Yes, that's true, Gelgrin." Now Harry was the one to leave his question unspoken – it seemed Gelgrin liked it that way, and would provide the information necessary, leaving Harry to deduce any further answers.

"I see. Once we make good on our escape, it will behoove us both if you were to be more adept than that with your magic. I consider myself a rather accomplished wizard, so in our spare time I might teach you a few lessons. You may also consider yourself free to make use of both the books I was given each year – there are only fifty of them, but we have little else to do – and the many treatises I have written throughout my time here. For now, I have spent many long hours digging and am weary. I do not trust that you know anything about digging, so we shall endeavor to create our escape tunnel after we've both rested."

Gelgrin offered no further dialogue as he turned from Harry to his mining tools, inspecting them carefully before turning to a small flame in which he melted some kind of liquid. Harry got a few different books down and sat down at the edge of the nimbus of light, sparing Gelgrin only a bit of attention as the old man added more wax and hair to his candle in preparation for the next day of digging.

oooOOOooo

"So Bodrog the Washed sided with Grindelwald?" Harry asked as he drove the spike once more into the dirt before him, freeing more than he shoved into the Vanishing bucket. He scraped it with the trowel, then poked more.

"Yes, of course – that's why the Muggles say that Switzerland remained neutral. Bodrog backed Grindelwald while his brother Norak the Young sided with Britain. Of course, they only did that as a way to ensure that both sides ended up in debt to the goblins – that's their only aim, to enrich themselves, the greedy little toads. Of course, thousands of wizards dying was a bonus for them as well." Gelgrin said moodily as he held the candle by which Harry dug.

They might have only known each other for a few hours, but the pair had found a bit of common ground – Gelgrin made history sound interesting, and Harry knew little of it, since he mostly slept through history class. Gelgrin was working to remedy his ignorance; Harry was just glad of the conversation, the lack of which over the past year had been stifling.

"Yeah, my history class talked a lot about goblin wars; I think they've liked killing wizards for a long time. We talked about a few Giant wars, too."

"Bah, now there's a race of bloodthirsty savages! The temperament of a goblin, only twelve metres tall! Of course, after the Transylvania Slaughter of 1835, most of the really big giants were all killed off. A few of the ministries tricked them into coming to 'peace talks', and were able to attack the giants before they attacked first. Killed almost a hundred wizards, and took weeks of planning, but thousands of giants came. The thing with giant negotiations, Harry, is that not just the leaders come – if you can get them to go anywhere, usually you have to seek them out – but the leaders' mates and the next five strongest of each tribe.

"Just in case someone dies and the bunch have to fight it out to see who becomes the next Gurg. A Gurg is a giant term, which implies both tribal leader and the giant with the most females. I suppose those five also come to split up his women, should the Gurg die. Anyway, because of that, since the wizards knew that all of the biggest and baddest giants would all show up, the entire race was devastated practically in one blow. Brilliant strategy, and we haven't had a real problem with them since." Gelgrin said admiringly. Harry thought of Hagrid, and immediately objected.

"But that's horrible! Most of those giants probably didn't have anything against wizards!" Gelgrin scoffed.

"Child, you know nothing of what you speak," he said condescendingly, "A tribe of giants routinely stomps into the nearest human settlement to destroy it and pick up a few snacks. They've even been known to keep human slaves as cattle – I suppose it's a bit of a delicacy amongst them. What, do you think they're just like you and I, only bigger and stronger?" Harry was about to respond affirmatively before Gelgrin said, "That's ridiculous! Particularly before Transylvania, when the biggest giants were known to have killed things like manticores and nundus. They were about the worst things to live, brutal and terrifyingly powerful. There's a reason the Ural mountains are to this day only sparsely populated by wizards." Harry decided not to speak and merely continued digging. Arguing with Gelgrin was probably not a good idea – despite Harry's interactions with Hagrid, who was only a half-giant, he realized he was quite ignorant of the subject.

"Good that you know when I might know better than you, Harry," Harry could hear the somewhat cruel smirk on Gelgrin's face without looking back. "Of course, giants had a bit of an revolt during Grindelwald's war. See, with all the Russian wizards traipsing hurriedly across the entire Asian continent to get to the front lines during the Battle of Archangel – wizard battle while the Muggles were tied up at Leningrad – the giants took advantage and attacked from behind. Two divisions of wizards went unaccounted for; I believe it was a few years before anyone discovered what happened to them."

Each day in the tunnels was much the same – brilliant stories on important history that Harry had never known and would have never learned if not for Gelgrin. While he was holding the candle for Gelgrin, Harry related his own stories of his time at Hogwarts and a few from his life before; Quidditch had evolved a few new rules since Gelgrin started playing, and he was mildly interested in the new broomsticks that had come out; Gelgrin was also very interested in the teaching staff at Hogwarts, which Harry was all-too-eager to wax poetically about.

oooOOOooo

"_Oppugno_," Harry muttered under his breath as he moved his right hand down with a firm flick, as though he was making a wand movement.

"So," Gelgrin asked, looking up from a scroll he was writing, "Do you actually expect that to be of any value, or are you simply bored?" Harry bristled at the nearly constant condescending tone once more in his voice.

"Well excuse me if I'm, as you said, a half-trained schoolboy. Won't do me much good to escape if the only magic I can do is…levitating a feather or something!" Harry said loudly. Gelgrin's craggy face only quirked an eyebrow in response.

"First: I'm glad that I've determined that the guards on this section of the prison, if not the entirety of it, have been pulled from their rotation and thus cannot have overheard your little outburst. Do you actually think sitting in a prison cell yelling about imminent escape is wise, Harry? I knew you were young, but I hadn't considered the possibility of you being exceptionally stupid." Despite Harry's anger at being chastised, he blushed and looked down somewhat embarrassed.

"Secondly," Gelgrin continued in the same emotionless tone, "I completely concur with you being little good to yourself or anyone else should you escape with your current novitiate level of control of magic. However, mispronouncing spells learnt from a book while wildly waving your hand will do little to change that." Gelgrin took out a slat of wood approximately a foot in length and tossed it to Harry, who easily caught it and glanced up, not daring to hope that it was a wand.

"Now, that particular charm – quite useful to order transfigured animals or even conjured ones to attack – is pronounced _Oh-puhg-noh_. And try the wand movement with that stick, which will be considerably more demonstrative." Harry did so, while Gelgrin just groaned.

"My word," he said in disgust. "I said try the wand movement, not wave a stick around like a baboon!" Gelgrin removed a second stick and demonstrated with a flawless flick with a clear ictus.

"You are a wizard – perhaps you've heard of them, subtle and slow to anger? – not a common ape. Your wand movements need to be concise and exact!" Harry attempted once more, while Gelgrin merely sighed.

"There are twenty-five elementary wand movements, Harry. I strongly recommend that you go through each of them carefully and practice them. I'm going to take a stab in the dark and say that your best spells were the kind where you point your wand in the general direction of the target without much further complication?" Harry nodded, "But of course. For anything more difficult than a Stunning Charm – or perhaps the Killing Curse – you need precise wand movements in order to properly cast. Just work on the twenty-five wand motions. I believe there is a text on their importance and detailed instruction."

oooOOOooo

"No, no, no!" Gelgrin said frustratedly in French, "I would say you are as ignorant as when you began, but I am not given to hyperbole, so I'll just say you are still exceedingly ignorant!"

Harry replied haltingly, though also in the recently learned language, "Well, I still say that the charm would work the same way."

"Making a little fruit dance across your desk in school is a _far_ cry from animating an object to defend against the Killing Curse. Trust me, it was one of the most advanced animations I ever worked on; as far as I know, the only other man capable of it was Albus Dumbledore!" Gelgrin shouted. It was rare that he said such things, revealing slight glimpses into his past; every time Harry asked for more information, he assuredly stopped talking immediately.

"I just think that my idea would work better, without the need for such an advanced animation. I mean, I've been making pineapples dance since my first year, and I've never tried animation." Harry responded, filing Gelgrin's fifth casual mention of Dumbledore away in his mind.

"Pah! Albus thought the same thing, the silly fool. In fact, the technique is more advanced than you even realize, because usual transfigurations wouldn't allow the statue to see colors! So you must allow it to only see that shade of green, so it can intercept the right curse. Trust me, boy, this is the finest defense against the Killing Curse that has ever existed – short of jumping around like a fool dodging them, of course." Gelgrin's tone had a finality to it, so Harry acquiesced before the old man got even more upset.

They had been digging for two years. Almost more importantly, Gelgrin had continued Harry's tuition for two years. Once Harry stopped "waving his stick around like a deranged squib", Gelgrin actually had many elements of education to impart to the boy. The library he'd amassed – Gelgrin had been given one additional book each year of his imprisonment until Harry had come to the prison – had been the primary thing keeping Harry sane and at least up-to-speed with his classmates, he reckoned, but Gelgrin often nudged him in the proper direction.

Vanishing charms, for instance, were a natural precursor to conjurations in the field of Transfiguration. Charms for making objects move were standard O.W.L. material, along with Color Changing Charms, Silencing Charms, and many others – most were detailed in the many books on household magic that Harry had available from Gelgrin's collection.

Of course, there was no actual practice of magic going on. Gelgrin had been certain to disabuse Harry of that notion early on.

"But I've seen Professor Dumbledore do some magic without a wand!" Harry insisted one day. Gelgrin sighed; Harry knew the implied question was dumb, in his opinion.

"Of course, a certain limited amount of magic is possible using a focus other than a wand. In a similar way, Muggles used to use candles to light their homes, instead of light bulbs. Can candles still be used, Harry?" Gelgrin had finished this explanation as though Harry were a particularly slow toddler.

"Now, were you to, for instance, learn how to light a few candles simultaneously with a snap of your fingers as your focus – quite a difficult prospect, but not impossible – it would be good to impress ignorant schoolchildren with. Other than such limited examples like that, it is nearly impossible. Now, even if you were to work something like that out – and I have, and am able to do exactly five such tricks with a snap, clap, or even a jiggle of my eyebrows – were you to do so within the walls of this prison, you would find alarms going off. So I also suggest that, if you are unable to control your temper, you restrain yourself from acts of accidental magic. Were guards to come investigate your cell, I'm sure both you and myself would find ourselves moved to even more dreary quarters and all our work would be for naught. They'd probably even remove our books…"

And so, despite only doing dry runs of waving his stick properly (still not properly nor precisely enough for Gelgrin's taste, of course) while chanting in Latin, Harry was still confident that once he got out and got an actual wand in his hand, he would be at least as skilled and advanced as his classmates. And since he'd been forced to practically teach and figure out his lessons on his own under loose supervision, perhaps even more so.

oooOOOooo

The sound of vicious digging woke Gelgrin.

This was unusual, because Harry, with much more learning to occupy his time than Gelgrin who only occasionally wrote, almost always woke up later than the older man. Then, however, Gelgrin remembered the date by looking at the tick marks on the wall.

July 31, 2000.

That explained it, then. Harry took his birthday, which was as close to his anniversary of imprisonment as he knew, particularly difficult each year. A milestone like a fifth-year anniversary would be particularly hard for the boy. Gelgrin barely refrained from sighing in exasperation at his inmate's emotional problems.

"Hitting the tunnel a bit early, eh Harry?" As he did every year, Harry didn't respond, merely shoveling a bit more rocky soil into the Vanishing bucket. The candle was sitting on the floor, but Gelgrin scooped it up and held it to avoid Harry putting it out with reckless dirt swinging.

Harry pounded the wall harder and faster in response.

"This isn't helpful to us, you know," Gelgrin stated, switching to a Southern Italian dialect – there was no reason for Harry to slack off in his language instruction. "Working yourself harder will just wear you out faster, and you'll get less done altogether. And if you bloody up your hands, your efficiency will be reduced all week; I'd estimate a cubic foot or so lost due to your carelessness today."

Harry snarled and tossed the pick (his former knife) to the side. "Well what would you like me to do? It's been five _damn_ years in this hell, Gelgrin! I'm in no mood to read about fucking _household _charms – again - _or_ listen to you babble as I hold the candle, so tell me what I should do other than dig my way out!" Harry yelled, the tunnel reverberating with his frustration.

"Harry, I expect you to dig calmly while you plot your revenge against those who unjustly imprisoned you. Honestly, you are the most neophyte prisoner I've ever encountered." Gelgrin said calmly. Harry rolled his eyes.

"Oh, and who do you plot against? I didn't think the dark wizard Grindelwald was unjustly accused." He said, finally accusing Gelgrin of his long-time suspicions. The older man was silent for a time.

"By my fifth year of imprisonment, I had thought up many torturous deaths for Albus Dumbledore," he admitted. "Since that time, I have come to the conclusion that I perhaps…misjudged the best treatment of muggles. In answer to your question, most everyone who I have plotted against has already died, anyway. The last, a traitorous dog who was working for me in England and gave the names of many good men for crimes he himself committed, died of dragon pox. Malfoy was his name." Grindelwald said, much to Harry's shock.

"One of his descendants, Lucius Malfoy, was a Death Eater for Voldemort. I'm not surprised – the whole family's pretty slimy, as far as I can tell." Grindelwald chuckled at this, while Harry continued beating the end of the tunnel.

"So, if you will satisfy my curiosity, when did you discern my identity?" Harry turned back at him and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You weren't really trying to hide it; the slip-ups with you talking about Dumbledore, the _obvious_ allusion with the name you picked, your uncanny knowledge about motivations concerning the second World War. Even as ignorant as I was when I got here, some things stood out." Harry's tone was still a bit bitter, but it seemed that Gelgrin – no, Grindelwald – had managed to deflect some of his anger.

"Ah yes, the name. I had much more success with both Girard and Gerhard; derivations of Gellert, you know, and a bit less obvious. But enough about that; tell me how you're going to kill Mr. Malfoy." Grindelwald mentioned this as casually as one might the weather. Harry's face hardened immediately.

"I think Malfoy is one of the Death Eaters most responsible for my being here. Voldemort was just reborn, so he couldn't have had the connections. The only other high-profile Death Eater…wait a minute, are we close to Durmstrang?" Harry asked, his mind whirling and grasping conclusions as he considered his revenge.

"We are not far…certainly closer to Durmstrang than to any of the other schools; it was my alma mater, you know." Grindelwald replied.

"I'd say Karkaroff also had a hand in it, then. He's the headmaster of Durmstrang; if the post is anything like Hogwarts, it has to be a fairly prestigious position. So Malfoy and Karkaroff together are probably the most responsible." The shadowy confines of the cave shrouded Harry's face, but Grindelwald was certain he wore a contemplative expression there.

"Well then, how are you…no, how are _we_ going to pay those gentlemen back for our imprisonment, Harry? After all, since my own revenge is carried out without me, I might as well aid you with yours. Retirement never held much attraction for me."

"If things have continued like they were when I was in school, then Malfoy's going to be the most openly influential wizard in Britain by now. He'll have pawned off the Minister of Magic position to some lackey of his, but he'll be behind the scenes just like Voldemort, under a pretense of being a generous philanthropist. He no doubt has a carefully construed persona, tooled to be the very image of a wizard everyone strives to be." Harry said, his voice obtaining an eerie calm – just as he'd learned in his first year to avoid visions from Voldemort, he separated himself from the situation and buried his cold fury.

"I take it you have something in mind for him other than a simple evisceration. I learned of an excellent curse for just that; it was made popular by a fellow calling himself 'Jack the Ripper' when I was a young boy, and I encountered him in a rough part of Paris after I was expelled from Durmstrang –"

"No," Harry said, cutting Grindelwald off before he could launch into another fascinating history lesson. "Malfoy needs to see everything he cultivated and planned for ruined, first. I'll kill off his progeny – never liked Draco anyway – to end his line; I'll seduce his wife, ruining his social reputation. I'll reveal that he never actually donated anything to St. Mungo's like he's famous for." At each proclamation, Harry's anger flared more. He nodded, then added, "Then we can eviscerate him, I guess."

"Well, your methods might be a bit simplistic, Harry, but there is, of course, something to be said for passion." Grindelwald's smile was macabre, but his speech gentle. "Of course, political ruination takes some time to engineer. I hope you have a few more enemies to execute, to keep us busy until then."

"…So how did that evisceration curse work?" Harry asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Ah, actually it was a series of curses. Strangulation was first, of course, and then while the victim is choking…"


	2. Revenge both swift and sweet

Many thanks to the wonderful Sophie, who began correcting this as I posted it on the DLP Work by Author section and has since wheedled her way into the position of beta . Without her, there would be an overabundance of "of course" and a distinct lack of full stops after quotes. How horrid that would be!

_**Escape to Darkness: Chapter Two**_

_Revenge both swift and sweet…_

_Friday, September 13, 1996. _

"Ladies and gentle-wizards," the overcoat and top-hat-wearing little man announced to the crowd gathered in front of Madam Malkin's Diagon store, "Your new Minister of Magic, Mr. Reginald Yaxley!"

The crowd erupted in cheers which turned into a surprised applause moments later for the display of fireworks spelling out Yaxley's name, a prominent _Minister_ before it, and confetti exploding in a myriad of colors and shapes.

"Thank you," Yaxley called out with a wave as he stepped up to the podium set up on the temporary stage. Naturally, Madam Malkin had not been happy with her storefront being blocked; Twillfit and Tatting's, however, a major campaign contributor to Yaxley, were quite pleased with the burst of business. The new minister was resplendent in rich velvet robes of midnight blue, with burgundy trim that was reminiscent of his former position in the DMLE. Golden twinkles adorned the robe, and a peacock feather cloak was worn over his shoulders.

"Thank you, wizards and witches of Britain!" He called again; the crowd quieted slightly in anticipation of his speech.

"Good people, we are at war." His voice was firm, and his eyes gazed over the crowd as though he was searching for offenders even at that very minute minute. He continued, his brown orbs connecting with the crowd as he sought out well-placed friends and political allies.

"The former administration was reticent to acknowledge it, but I do so freely and can tell you this - you have been deceived!" The hecklers placed in the crowd sighed dramatically, inciting others, and Yaxley noticed Lucius Malfoy in the front smirking at his success.

"Rumors have been started by a vigilante group that a dark wizard is on the loose; they have been propagating it so that they might have martial law, taking away your rights and privileges as they see fit!" His voice rose at this, just as he had rehearsed. "These vigilante terrorists, members of the so-called Order of the Phoenix led by the late Albus Dumbledore, have been seeking to usurp the Ministry's power for years, oppressing the rights of good, upstanding citizens. Many have been deceived, and many prominent members of our society – even my own close friend Lucius Malfoy, one of the finest wizards I know – have been targeted." As far as most knew, Lucius was a kind and generous wizard, and so these words resonated with many in the crowd.

"But I promise you this – such terrorists stand no chance against my leadership team in the Ministry! Together with key advisors, I have developed several strategies on how to root out them out; we won't rest until our goal is accomplished." He paused dramatically for the crowd to applaud and smiled back at them jovially, seeing several camera flashes go off. Throughout his speech, he had been captured motioning dramatically; one of the reasons Yaxley had been chosen as a candidate was his natural charisma and skill at public speaking.

"We need to revitalize the administration of the Ministry and root out sympathizers of this 'Order of the Phoenix'. I've worked tirelessly in the Wizengamot to reinvent education domestically – Hogwarts' new Headmaster and professors have turned out one class already, and the dramatically improved O.W.L and N.E.W.T scores speak for themselves!" Yaxley did not mention that his fellow Death Eaters had killed and replaced several testers with Polyjuiced doubles who had padded the scores to make up for the rather abysmal instruction.

"And I tell you, I'll continue this work in other fields across the Ministry. Witches and Wizards, it's time for a change!" His speech built up in fervor as he crescendoed into his campaign slogan – "Wizards for Wizards!"

"Wizards for Wizards! Wizards for Wizards!" The crowd cried in response, once more initiated by the paid hecklers.

As the chant continued, Yaxley calmly took his seat as his new staff was announced – Stephen Avery Sr., Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Stephen Avery Jr., Special Assistant to the Minister; Marcus Flint, head of the Department of Magical Games; Walden Macnair, Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures; Antonin Dolohov (recently exonerated with a full pardon), Head of the Department of Internal Affairs, a new appointment.

To those few in the crowd who knew – Alastor Moody polyjuiced as a buxom young twenty-something and Bill Weasley wearing a hood to cover his distinctive hair – the list read like a "Who's Who Amongst the Death Eaters". Moody was copiously taking notes, ostensibly acting as a reporter. Others, too, were named and recognized – some known to the Order and some not – Travers, Crouch Jr., Rookwood, Mulciber (all also exonerated like Dolohov, along with the Lestranges), Rowle, Booth, Gibbon.

Some gave speeches supporting the ideals presented by Yaxley while others kept silent. Dolohov, usually silent and dour, delivered a suprisingly rousing speech concerning national unity and identity, while Avery Sr. detailed his plan for a complete renovation of his department.

It was several hours later when Yaxley and his new staff were finally able to depart from the stage, Apparating to a conference room deep within the Ministry.

At the head of the venerable table stood a figure, cloaked in black robes, his pallid skin pulled unnaturally tight across his face as he smirked with the arrival of his loyal followers. Others were present already and milled about the room, an excited energy in the air.

"Yaxley," Voldemort addressed the Death Eater in barely more than a whisper - nonetheless, his voice was heard clearly by all. "Those robes suit you quite nicely…were they from the Gilderoy Lockhart collection?" The listeners chuckled appreciatively at their Master's jibe –some were toasting in celebration. At Voldemort's right stood a stately-looking Bellatrix Lestrange together with others of her ilk who specialized in torture and curses, while most of the recent arrivals sat on the left side – Lucius was closest to Voldemort, followed by Nott Sr. and Yaxley.

"Our plan went off without a hitch, milord," Yaxley said smoothly as he grinned in success. "Even now, the fools are cursing the Order of the Phoenix as a terrorist group. We've effectively isolated them, and our reports indicate that they lack the real resources to operate much longer from the shadows. When they're drawn out, it will be a slaughter."

"You aren't listening to the right reports, you _fool_," Bellatrix spat from her side of the table. Expensive rehabilitation may have returned her looks, but her manners still suffered from her maddening imprisonment – even her eye still twitched somewhat crazily when her temper rose.

"Ever since you cleared that traitor _Black_ they have much more money than you think!" Yaxley watched her disdainfully before replying:

"We had no idea Black was innocent when that law was pushed through. I don't seem to recall you lodging a complaint when you were removed from your cell! In fact," he adopted a taunting smirk to accompany his drawl, "I don't believe you said much at all. You were busy drooling and muttering incoherently."

"You self-righteous bastard! _Crucio_! I'll tear you apart!" Rodolphus Lestrange had to physically restrain his wife as she cursed and flung spittle across the stately table. Yaxley had nimbly dodged her curse which flew past him to ignite a painting in a burst of angry red flames. Avery put out the fire with a quick burst of water from his wand.

"Ah, and there's the fine reason why some of us still don't spend time in public," Avery said to the distraught Lestrange.

"As amusing as this is," Voldemort interrupted with a hiss, his crimson eyes blazing, "_kindly cease interrupting my celebration_!" His artificially high voice put a stop to the commotion – both Avery and Yaxley apologized profusely.

"Now, Avery," the Dark Lord continued, settling down. "You've already given notice to the remaining Aurors and Hit-Wizards of their imminent reassessment." The old noble nodded as his fingers idly stroked his silver goatee, so Voldemort added, "And how is the new recruitment being handled?"

"Excellently, milord. We've already sent out feelers to…the appropriate candidates. Most of them are only too-happy to receive the kind of compensation offered and are jumping at the chance to become the kind of enforcers we need. In addition, a group at Hogwarts is being led by the young Malfoy to sort out the proper kind still in school. Snape is organizing everything, and I believe Amycus and Barty are providing additional instruction to the students. They should be well-versed in the mindset we require by the time we get the first class in two years."

"Well done, Avery. Dolohov, your extra staff starts tomorrow, I believe, with the interviewing and cleansing of the current Ministry."

"Of course, my Lord," the burly Ukrainian wizard replied with a slight lilting accent. "I have estimated it will take three days to clean out the upper echelons, and approximately six months on a more relaxed schedule to finish the entire cleaning of the Ministry. After that, I should be able to free up my best staff for other positions and retain the Department Head position merely to keep everyone properly in line."

"I'll be able to use them when you can spare them, Antonin – I know anyone you pick will be at least a fully qualified Hit-Wizard," Avery Sr. replied; Dolohov nodded in response.

"Excellent. Let us finish our feast then, unless any more pressing business is at hand?" There was none, of course, for these meetings were a formality at best, the information being known to most long before it was 'presented', so the rest of the evening was enjoyed with a champagne fountain and a spread paid for by the recent Muggle-born Registration Tax.

_June 28, 2005._

Sirius Black, former Azkaban inmate, released Death Eater, prominent pureblood socialite, three times winner of Witch Weekly's annual Most Charming Smile award (the things one did in service to the Order), was having a very fine day. Dressed in his rather tight dragonhide pants – custom tailored by Doris Tatting – and maroon overcoat, strolling through Diagon Alley and wielding his ebony cane, he stopped only to greet a few fellow socialites – purely for appearances, of course – and flirt with precisely three girls, two of whom were young enough for him to have fathered. As he did a double-take in epiphany, that dark brunette had possessed the infamous Black cheekbones…

"Well bless me, what have we here? A lonely pureblood, lusting after my recent graduates?" Sirius barely resisted the urge to shoot an itching hex at the familiar voice; one he had known since his early childhood, in fact.

"Barty Crouch, what a surprise," Sirius said before turning around, drawling in a manner that was probably eerily similar to his most-despised cousin by marriage, Lucius Malfoy. Naturally, Bellatrix took the spot of most-despised blood relative.

"Why Sirius, it's been far too long. Four years, if I recall correctly, when you attended a graduation ceremony. You never even said hello!" The younger man, his blonde hair styled fashionably and his robes every galleon as expensive as Sirius', adopted a childish pout on his face.

"Yes, well, I wasn't sure how well you'd remember me. Who knew if you'd remember the times you came over to play with little Reggie?" Sirius drew up closer to the other wizard as he quietly added, "And as for our time together in Azkaban…well, you spent most of it in your cell crying like a bitch."

Barty, however, had recuperated well in the decade since his imprisonment and merely smirked in response, shaking his head.

"Yes, quite so. You know, some mutual acquaintances of ours have been trying to have you over for dinner. Seems they think you might owe them something for having cleared your name. Bella, for one, has been insisting for years that she needs to see you," Barty drawled, maintaining the cool façade of casual. Sirius grinned widely as he thought up a retort.

"Well, I was never in Slytherin, so I don't follow that 'better a cousin than a mudblood' rule – sorry to disappoint the old girl. And you know, Barty, I've been hearing a few rumors about the 'Head Girl' having to own up to her title – between you and ol' Snivvy, I'm just a bit worried that –"

His diatribe was interrupted when he landed flat on his back, bowled over by a smallish blur of orange robes and brown hair.

"Hey, watch where you're going, you git!" He called loudly from his position on the ground. The other man, a bloke with a slight build, bottle-cap glasses and mousy brown hair holding a camera near as large as his head, excitedly snapped off a photo of the Black on his backside. Barty howled with laughter at the spectacle, but Sirius reddened in embarrassment.

"Oh my goodness! Sirius Black, isn't it?" Sirius almost groaned audibly; the excitable little fellow had a high, almost squeaky voice. Getting up, he heard the camera click another photo and had to fight off an eye twitch of exasperation. With a mutter, Sirius snapped up his jaunty cane and glared at the nuisance.

"Wow, Mr. Black, sorry about knocking you down there! I just got a job as a photographer at the _Daily Prophet_ you see, and I mean, it's ever so exciting to get to meet one of the real celebrities around London, just walking around Diagon, just as you please!" Sirius gave him an indulgent smile and winced as a third photo was snapped off.

"Thanks, Mr. Black." What he was being thanked for Sirius had no clue, but as long as it got him away from the crazy, he did not really care. "D'you think you might spare a few minutes for an interview? What do you think about the recent breakdown of communication between the British and Italian Ministries? Do you think Mr. Dolohov's hard-handed tactics and brutish interrogation techniques were at fault or was it the Italian's hard line against broom imports that mostly contributed?" The boy was beginning to sound like those two kids in the Order – Creevers? Maybe they had an extra-annoying cousin or something. And why was the Alley spinning?

Sirius stumbled again before falling, his head woozy and spinning. There were yells and screaming, then a whooshing of air before he vomited on the cold stone floor, his cheek resting in his sick.

"Sirius, wake up! Padfoot!" Someone was nudging him on the shoulder, awakening him from a lovely dream.

"Why no, Professor McGonagall, I don't think that outfit's at all appropriate to teach in!" Sirius said loudly, opening his eyes. Beside the king-sized circular bed stood Remus, a tired smile on his face, along with several others he recognized. Thankfully, Minerva was not among them.

"Still insisting on yelling things that had nothing to do with your dream every time you get woken up, Padfoot?" Remus said, miserably failing to hold back a wide grin. Sirius returned it – he had been pulling that ever since doing it once accidentally back in fourth year, but still thought it hilarious.

"Can't kill a good joke while it's funny, Moony! Besides, what's fifty years once we're out of school, right? I bet I could totally make Minnie my Mrs. Robinson if I wanted," he exclaimed boisterously. "Now what happened? And why is a grey-haired werewolf nursing me back to health instead of a buxom young tart?"

"You woke up in a pile of your own vomit – unsurprising, really – in the middle of Diagon Alley – still unsurprising, I might add – having been one of two witnesses to the capture of Bartemius Crouch Jr. Damn it, Sirius, turn my clothes back!" Between Remus' waspish comments, his robes had managed to turn into a tight white nurse's outfit, complete with garish red lipstick and a hat. The skirt did not quite come down far enough to hide the top of the stockings and did nothing to cover the garter.

"Hehe," Sirius cackled childishly, "Even when I'm sick I still rule, Moony. Remember that. Now what were you talking about? I remember running into a Creevey - at least, it might have been a Creevey - and him taking my picture… then not much."

"_Finite_," Remus said, waving his wand over the uniform. "Damn it, Sirius, change my clothes back!" The rest of the room was amused to varying degrees by their antics, but anxiously awaited Sirius' answer. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the only Auror left in the Department remotely friendly to the Order, patiently waited for Sirius' statement with a bemused grin on his face.

"Ah, I didn't transfigure them, Moony. Switching charm, see? Your clothes are in the armoire on the left." Sirius motioned casually to the furniture, which Moony quickly hustled over to. When Remus bent over, intentionally giving the room an eye-full, Sirius grimaced exaggeratedly.

"What the…why the hell did you have a nurse's uniform in your armoire, anyway, Padfoot?" Remus asked as he quickly Switched his clothes with the charm. Never having had the skill that Sirius did at transfiguration, his robe was a bit more rumpled than it had been before.

"…Don't judge me, werewolf," Sirius countered with faux haughtiness. "Anyway, weren't we talking about my narrow escape from death and all that?" Remus ignored the quick change of subject as Shacklebolt stepped forward. Shacklebolt had been a member of the Order since the first year of its existence, before Voldemort had all but taken over directly. Since then, he had remained on friendly terms and had not divulged their secrets, but he had not actively participated in meetings; with his position, it was far too dangerous. After a decade of losing, there were many in the same situation.

"Of course, Sirius. We have reports saying you were the last one to talk with Barty before he was abducted. Can you describe the events of the afternoon for us in your own words?" Shacklebolt's calm baritone voice was as smooth as molasses. He clicked an official recorder of some sort that he had removed from a pocket of his robe.

"You know, Shack, you could make a fortune on those sex phone lines that the Muggles have." Shacklebolt blinked rapidly in succession before Sirius continued, "So, I was talking to Barty – he tried to invite me over to a family picnic or something, but naturally I refused. Too much time in the Sun is just _dreadful_ to my complexion. Anyway, we were just exchanging farewells," _or farewell jibes_, he corrected silently as he drawled his way through the official investigation, "When this bloke shows up and knocks me down. Small, mousy, had a big camera. Don't remember his name, I might not have gotten it. So he's apologizing and taking pictures of me. Hopefully not for _Naughty Witch Weekly_, but they've slipped a few photographers at me over the years, so you never know. Anyway, I must have hit my head when he knocked me over because I got a bit nauseous. I spew some chunks all over Diagon Alley, and when I do, I hear yelling and the sound of some wind, I think. I don't know, kind of weird." Shacklebolt nodded in understanding, as though none of this was a revelation.

"I see. Alright, Mr. Black, that's fine. If you're free, I'd like for you to come down to the office for a bit as part of the procedure." Kingsley shut off the recording device and placed it back in his pocket.

"I've been ordered to bring you in, Sirius. Malfoy's orders, the little upstart bastard. He wants to ream you, probably administer Veritaserum. Of course, being a Pureblood from such a well-established family as the Blacks," here, Sirius snorted loudest of anyone in the room, "You have every right to refuse. Oh…Malfoy might have deliberately told me not to tell you that. How forgetful of me."

"Like I didn't know. That little ponce needs more spankings and Christmas coal. Alright, let's go Kingsley. But wait, let me wash the vomit off my face real quick." He Vanished it and Scourgified his face, leaving only a well-scrubbed cheek.

"Oh Merlin," he said with a groan, "Hey Moony, ten galleons says _Witch Weekly_ runs an article on my bulimia!" Kingsley and Sirius Apparated away and emerged in the Auror Office a moment later.

"Auror Shacklebolt!" Draco Malfoy had not changed much in ten years. He wore his blonde hair long in a plait flowing down his back, just like his father; his pale blue eyes still glinted at cruel jokes and sarcastic barbs; he still looked down his nose at most everyone in society. Currently, he held up his wrist and pointed to his gold watch with diamond adornment; the timepiece was worth at least a year of Kingsley's salary.

"Tut, tut, Kingsley old boy, you certainly took your sweet time getting here!" Draco drawled, absently rubbing his nails along the fine silk of his crimson Auror robes. The gold epaulets signified his position as Head Auror.

"I might have to demote you back to cadet if you keep giving me this kind of trouble, Junior Auror." Shacklebolt's recent demotion at the hands of Malfoy was an inexhaustible well of humor to the whole department – all of whom were Shacklebolt's junior and supported the agenda of the new Ministry.

"I'm bored," Sirius announced rudely. Malfoy turned a glare his way, but Sirius just smiled vacantly.

"Guess there's little chance the curse addled your brain, Black, since you haven't got one," he declared hotly. Amicably, Sirius slung an arm over the young blonde's shoulder.

"Aww, ickle Drakey-poo…it's our inbreeding, you know, that causes it." Draco sputtered indignantly, so Sirius clarified, "you know, my lack of brains that you just declared – yours for coming up with that horrid little jibe. Oh well, little cuz – we'd better stick together, right?"

"Get off me, Black! Now, where's Barty Crouch?" The blonde growled.

"How should I know? I got knocked over by some photographer, hit my head, fell down again, there was yelling and a gust of wind, I wake up and Barty's gone." Sirius summarized quickly.

"Do you not know how a Portkey sounds, Black? Or did you just declare it 'magic' and leave it alone?" Sirius considered Draco as though he was a particularly offensive and annoying little puppy. Finally, he adopted a superior look and sniffed presumptuously.

"It's not the prerogative of citizenry to presume such things, Mr. Malfoy." Adopting his own attitude seemed to set off the short-tempered Head Auror, who flushed angrily.

"Black! That little photographer _moron_ didn't know a damn thing, so you'd better start talking! I know you had a hand in this!" Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously. In a lower voice, he questioned, "How'd you even find out that Barty was the one to Portkey Potter away during the Tournament?"

The blood rushed from Sirius' face as he was painfully reminded of his godson.

"Stop! Sirius, put him down! He can't breathe!" Kingsley had an arm on his shoulder, urging him. Somehow, in a blur of motion, Sirius had managed to bat away a desk as he slammed his younger cousin against a wall by the neck, and was watching his face turn purple. As Sirius gained control of his actions once more, he noticed the spectacle he was making and absently released Malfoy. The blonde had run all the way to his office, warily glimpsing back at Sirius as he shut his door, still clutching his neck.

"I'm sorry, Sirius, I didn't know," Shacklebolt said gravely. Sirius turned to him, still thinking about what Barty had done to Harry so long ago.

"Ten years now, Shack. Ten years gone, and look at what's happened. And now I find out Barty was responsible, _Barty_! I used to make fun of the snot when he clung to my little brother like a bad rash, and it turns out he's the reason Harry died. Merlin!" Shacklebolt calmly returned to his desk and got out a small bottle of Ogden's finest, taking a draw and handing the bottle to Sirius.

"Mr. Black! Mr. Black!" A familiar voice called.

"I can't handle this right now," Sirius said with a sigh, turning to Shacklebolt to hand the bottle back and escape quickly.

"Goodness, it's like I'm destined to get an interview with you, Mr. Black! I'm sorry, I think in the excitement back in the Alley I completely forgot to introduce myself – Walter Coberly, amateur photographer and new employee of the _Daily Prophet_!" The excitable young boy, probably only a few years younger than Draco, proudly displayed his credentials and wielded his large camera expertly, flashing Kingsley and Sirius in two pictures they tried to avoid.

"And I mean, what a boost for my career, right? 'The last shots of esteemed Hogwarts professor Bartemius Crouch as he's whisked away to Merlin-knows-where!' That's what the caption's going to be, they said at the _Prophet_. It's ever so exciting." The squeaky ring of the boy's voice was so oddly reminiscent of the little Creevey kid that it was frightening to Sirius; both Colin and Dennis Creevey had immediately joined the Order of the Phoenix and were some of the few who had never lost their enthusiasm. Come to think of it, the only person Sirius remembered using the phrase 'ever so exciting' was Hermione (another who had joined the Order immediately upon reaching her majority). It was certainly in a different context, though.

Sirius batted his thoughts aside and merely grunted before handing Kingsley back his firewhiskey. He Apparated away with a loud 'pop' and without a word to the would-be reporter.

Kingsley offered the boy a sympathetic smile and ushered him away, Malfoy having already taken all of his statements. He left the boy in the Atrium and returned to his cubicle on Level 2.

"Walter?" Called a somewhat lilting accent – perhaps Italian or Spanish – from behind one of the many fireplaces that lined the atrium corridor. The mousy-haired early twenty-something went towards the stranger who immediately cast a Notice-Me Not Charm around them.

"You should just make the meeting with Dolohov if you turn this back three turns. Now I'll make you look like me, and you make me look normal," the other, a heavy-set Italian with dark hair and a tanned complexion from a lifetime on the Mediterranean said. Walter nodded and quickly the Italian's features changed back – pale skin, thin but not quite gaunt, with raven hair and emerald eyes. Walter's features became Italian, and Harry handed over the tiny golden hourglass.

"Ah, the comfortable form of Giacomo. Walter always felt kinda scrawny."

"I know. What do you expect when we combine Colin Creevey and Hermione, though, eh?"

"Right. So a paperclip Portkey to the bottom of the North Sea after I snap his wand, right?" The Italian said smoothly, adopting the lilting accent the other had possessed just a moment prior.

"Yeah, he has a second wand in his boot, so snap that one too. Oh, and set off the Dark Mark right above it – makes for some crazy press." Harry's familiar features grinned harshly.

"I bet. So where did you get this Time-Turner, anyway?"

"Same way you did. Trust me, you'll get a headache in a half-hour just thinking about it. You'd better be off now. Don't want to cause another international scandal by pissing off Dolohov."

The Italian disappeared as he twisted the Time-Turner. Without dropping his Notice-Me Not Charm, Harry Potter Disapparated from the Ministry of Magic.

oooOOOooo

A loud 'CRACK' resounded throughout the empty warehouse, and immediately there was a honey-colored wand against the back of the intruder's neck.

"You're late." The voice was craggy and harsh, but the man from whom it echoed seemed to embody that description. The hair on his head flowed seamlessly into the rough stubble that lined his chin and mouth. All of it was the same length and same shock-white color that indicated great age, even if the lean and tone body belied such.

"I'm not finished for the day yet, and you still have to give me another Time-Turner so that I can give it to myself a few minutes ago." Harry looked up oddly, then added, "I'm not sure if that sentence has ever been said before in the history of language."

Grindelwald grunted in amusement, then carefully removed a tiny hourglass on a chain and handed it over to Harry who placed it in his pocket with its identical twin, handed by himself to himself several hours ago.

"There you go, freshly stolen from the British Department of Mysteries. If you can believe it, their security hasn't changed in sixty years." Cryptic comments like this were commonplace when dealing with an infamous dark wizard, so Harry did not bother to ask about the story.

"It was odd, having it handed to myself – after the first time, I gave myself a headache trying to figure out how I'd gotten it," Harry admitted with a grin.

"In my experience," Grindelwald said, "It's better to just not think about what you do when you time travel. That way you screw things up just as you were supposed to, and don't have to worry about it." Harry agreed and glanced down at his watch before the other wizard interrupted him.

"Here's the secret to our little hideout here. I'm not certain I ever told you about the Fidelius Charm, but it's a good dark wizard's best friend. Takes a certain craftiness to properly conceal a secret, but it's very secure once hidden by the spell." He handed Harry a piece of paper with one line of writing on it, in a practiced, loopy scrawl.

_The safehouse of two dark wizards lies in what you currently believe to be an abandoned warehouse._

Just as it was read, the abandoned warehouse around him changed from barren and empty to containing a comfortable amount of furniture and having several walls that marked off different rooms. It was still a warehouse, but it was better than the cold concrete slab that had been present previously.

"Can you believe that I had two appointments made the very day I arranged for my first abduction?" Harry said, fingering the new Time-Turner. "Helena Gamp invited me over for tea with Lucius at the same time that I have a meeting with Dolohov." Harry sighed and set about changing his face once more, this time turning into a blonde Frenchman with a thick but tone form; he had used the Weasley twins' short but stocky bodies as the model for this persona.

"It is your own fault for failing to realize the purpose of an alias. You are not supposed to have a high profile. The Frenchman I can understand, since we need a member of the gentry in order to gain access to Malfoy, but I've been telling you for quite a while that you needed to drop the Italian." This had the feeling of a long-standing debate between the two, and Harry obviously did not feel like defending himself. He ran his wand through his slightly lengthened hair and the formerly unruly mop was handsomely parted to the side; a slight twist at the end gave it the slightest hint of a boyish curl. Gilderoy Lockhart had been the model for Henri Desjardins' face and hair. A quickly summoned mirror, a slight adjustment of the ears and Harry was satisfied with his disguise.

"I was a minor official in the ambassadorial office until the Minister decided to send me off to where I was most likely to be cursed. And as head diplomat, no less." Harry dismissed the older man's objections with a quick interjection of, "I know, I know, it was my fault for starting a relationship with her without a disguise – but it was damned hard to get her to fall for me as a heavy-set middle-aged Italian; you probably would have had an easier time of it in one of your disguises." Harry had adopted a rough French accent to his English. After all, Henri had no good reason to be as proficient in English as Giacomo the diplomat did.

"I've told you many times when teaching you that women of different nations find different things attractive. It's a sign of wealth to them!" Harry merely gave a sarcastic wave before he turned one of the Time-Turners four times and quickly Apparated out of the empty warehouse.

"Henri?" The skeletal old crone crowed as Harry reappeared a heartbeat later in her foyer.

She pronounced it with a faux accent that was grating, even to a relatively inexperienced speaker such as Harry. It was clear that she had had little prior interaction with French men.

"_Ah, Madame_," he said indulgently, kissing her white-gloved hand. "As always, it is such a pleasure to see you, and spend some time in this manor. _C'est magnifique_!"

The elderly woman giggled in a grating manner, just a bit too shrilly to seem natural. "Oh, Henri! You're such a doll, my boy. This place is hardly anything – barely suitable for an old woman!" She dismissed his compliment unconvincingly. "Before you got here, I was just telling Lucius about how the manor used to look when I was a girl." At this point, the mentioned aristocrat strode into the room. His pale blue robes swirled along with his immaculately groomed hair, his grey eyes immediately sizing up the new arrival. 'Henri' had not yet become acquainted with Lucius.

"There you are, Lucius! This is Henri, who I've been telling you about. He's _French_, you know! Dear, but a witch just doesn't get an opportunity to meet many Continentals these days." Lucius ignored the blathering old woman as he attempted to read the Frenchman's face; Harry had pasted on a convincingly oblivious grin - a trait borrowed from Ron.

"Lucius Malfoy," he finally said, carefully extending his arm. 'Henri', however, grabbed Lucius into a hug and kissed either cheek in a stereotypical fashion. "_Monsieur_ Malfoy, eet is so good to finally meet you! Oh, ze stories I 'ave 'eard! Oh! Excuse my manners! Henri Desjardins, _Monsieur_!"

Lucius pulled a sour face and quickly escaped from the man's embrace, nearly scoffing at the hug and the overzealous handshake. "All good things, I'm sure," he finally replied carefully.

"Oh, _Oui_! Noted philanthropist, generosity beyond imagination! A gentlemen and a _chevalier_ wizout equal! _Monsieur_ Malfoy, I cannot imagine you don't know what praise 'as been 'eaped on you internationally! Oh! But of course, you were being modest! Let me add zat to ze list!" Malfoy stood just a bit straighter and his countenance grew smug as Henri laughed raucously at his own little joke.

"Yes, yes, Lucius is a dear, Henri, just a dear. Not quite the flirt you are, though!" Madam Gamp cut in and desperately clutched her hand at Henri's arm, which he graciously took as he escorted her into the parlor where they always had tea. Official-looking parchments were strewn across the low cocktail table; Lucius sat behind them and gathered several up, placing them in front of Madam Gamp.

"Now, as I was saying, Madam Gamp, the papers have already been prepared –" Lucius began.

"You know, Lucius has been just _boring_ me with all this talk, Henri." The Lady Gamp cut in waspishly as she shot Lucius an irritated look. "He never is as much fun as you are. My great uncle Alphard Gamp - You've read his Principle Exceptions to Transfigurations, no doubt - always said it was the key to a happy life. And anyway, I already told the goblins how I want the money distributed, Lucius dear. It's all taken care of, since I never had children of my own – didn't want to spoil my girlish figure –" she noted to Henri with a particularly unattractive twist on her face. "And my poor nieces and nephews have already passed on."

Lucius' face instantly turned to stone and Harry could note the barely-concealed fury.

"What," he began slowly, even compared to his usual drawl, "do you mean 'it has been taken care of'? We agreed years ago, Helena, that we needed to give the money to the children at St. Mungo's. That I was the best person for the job, after you passed. What about our plans?"

Helena Gamp retained her bored look, innocent and rather vacant as she casually said, "Well, you haven't been around much lately, Lucius. Henri and I have come up with new plans over this past year. We've talked them all through, and – well, you don't seem to have the time, Lucius – so I think that he's better suited to taking the money. So he's getting all of it. This old manor, too." Lucius' mouth began to quiver as control over the third-largest Old Money family was snatched away from him.

"What?" He finally demanded petulantly. "What do you mean? You hardly know him, and even he admits what a sterling reputation I have – the money should be _mine_! And he's bloody _French_!" A tone of hysteria entered his voice at this last accusation as the normally reserved Malfoy scion finally lost his composure. He glanced once more at the figures in the parchment on the desk and promptly sat down. His own fortunes had been taxed with the need for an appearance of infinite wealth by himself and others amongst the Dark Lord's followers, and the Gamp money would have nearly doubled what he had remaining.

"Well, really! Lucius, a Lady such as I does not tolerate outbursts like that! Please see yourself out!" She raised her chin as though something smelly were under her nose. Lucius quickly regained his composure as he settled for a baleful glare at Henri, who was seated next to the old woman, her arm still in his as he patted it affectionately. One of his eyes narrowed dangerously as he continued:

"Of course, Madam Gamp. Forgive my outburst. You and…On-ree…" He managed to insert even more disdain into his voice as he mocked Harry's atrocious accent, "Enjoy the rest of the afternoon!" He scooped up the Gringotts documents quickly as he kept a stranglehold on his temper and Apparated out once he reached the foyer.

"Oh, Henri. All this talk with Lucius was quite tiresome, wasn't it? Be a doll and help me up to my room, I think I'll lay down for a nap." Helena melodramatically placed the back of her hand on her head and sighed.

"Of course, _Madame_. It would be my pleasure!" As he helped her up and discretely cast a featherlight charm on her, she commented, "Oh, I can just see this house all filled with children again, Henri. You'll find a nice family for it?"

The spinster was most concerned about this, in her will; she firmly believed that the bubbly atmosphere she had known as a child would be returned to the house when a new family moved in.

"Of course, 'Elena." She giggled as she always did when he pronounced her name with an accent. "Ze very finest family, wiz immaculate blood."

He carefully helped her into bed and then Switched a dressing robe from her closet onto her. "You're getting much better at that spell, Henri." Given that failure would result in an unpleasant sight, he had had ample motivation after the first time she requested it. "Good night."

A silent spell later and she was in a deep, refreshing sleep.

One from which she would not awaken, now that she had signed over her fortune to Harry.

"_Avada Kedavra_," he intoned firmly as he drew upon his hatred for Lucius, channelling it into the spell.

The old woman died peacefully during a sweet dream, not a mark on her; indiscernable from having died a natural death.

"Of course," Harry added in his own normal voice as he turned around once more at the doorway, "I never did mention _when_ I'd find the family." From the foyer of the Gamp – no, the Desjardins – Manor, he Apparated to the Ministry to sort out the Time-Turner situation with the other two Harrys currently running around.

He was careful to avoid Diagon Alley, where at that very moment a Disillusioned Harry Potter had Banished a galleon Portkey onto Barty Crouch, taking him to the bottom of the North Sea.


	3. Politics are an odd game

Thanks to Sophie for the beta work. Apparently Amerision gave some advice over IRC too, so thanks for that as well. His story _Lost Time_ is a great piece of work, too, if any readers out there are looking for something else to read, what with my own abysmal update rates .

Anyway, enjoy!

_**Escape to Darkness: Chapter Three**_

_Politics are an odd game_

_**Wizengamot Passes New "Pureblood Inheritance Protection Statute"- **_**Daily Prophet**_** Interview with Lucius Malfoy!**_

_In an emergency vote yesterday championed by community leader and suspected Wizengamot member Lucius Malfoy, the Wizengamot passed by an overwhelming margin a new law. Lucius, who generously gave his time to sit down with the Daily Prophet for an interview about this law, believes it necessary to protect the 'Legacy of countless Pureblood families'. (Readers will be familiar with Lucius as he often provides publicized commentary on Wizengamot laws._

"_Lucius," asks reporter Bulstrode, herself the presumptive heir of a Pureblood family, "Just what does this law do for families?"_

"_An excellent question, Marissa. This act is designed primarily _for_ the families – the children – of wizards and witches. It merely puts the Wizengamot in charge of overseeing the turnover of family monies when the patriarch or matriarch of a family dies. That way there are no unfortunate cases where the money is mishandled by an disgruntled, exiled distant family member."_

_DP: "Why Lucius, was that a dig at the Black scion? It was well known that he was threatened with removal from the family for years."_

_LM: "There are many unfortunate cases where money can be mishandled and given to an inappropriate inheritor. The Wizengamot, in its wisdom, seeks to avoid that."_

_DP: "Are you finally coming out and naming yourself as a member of the elusive Wizengamot, Lucius?"_

_LM: "Now, now! You know that ever since the terrorist attacks of the Order of the Phoenix, the Wizengamot has gone underground – I may have heard rumors that not even members know who other members are. So I'm not saying anything, except this is a wise decision by that august body._

_If Lucius _is_ a member of such a body, the _Daily Prophet _certainly thinks there is no finer man to be appointed. To the rest of the Wizarding World of Britain, know that your fortunes are safe in the hands of your proper successor, thanks to the Wizengamot._

_**Gamp Heiress dies just before new Wizengamot law can take place**_

_In an unfortunate turn of events, the legendary spinster Helena Gamp, whose remarkable ancestors advanced the field of Transfiguration to its current state, passed on yesterday in her sleep._

_Her death comes just a day before a Wizengamot law would ensure the safety of her fortunes, but Gringott's representatives let slip that her belongings have already been claimed and distributed. A goblin from Gringott's bank, which stored much of the late Gamp's liquid capital told reporter Marissa Bulstrode, "The Gamp fortune's already gone, so I told the bloody wizard from the Wizengamot already! Good day!"_

_Thankfully, such speedy execution seems to indicate that she had a recent will created and therefore secured the future of her finances herself._

_Let her death, however, serve as a warning to others, and tacit proof that the Wizengamot's wisdom comes not a moment too soon to ensure the future inheritance of other families._

_Notably, Lucius Malfoy raised questions about the timing of her death, perhaps implicating a family member with a spy network into the Wizengamot. "I just want to ensure that there was no foul play by someone who stood to gain something from her death."_

_However, her investigators noted that her will was last updated a few weeks before her death, which seems to be by natural causes (the spinster Gamp was 124 years old). "Despite Mr. Malfoy's objections, we noticed nothing out of the ordinary," Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt assured. Shacklebolt, however, was shortly after the investigation demoted to Junior Auror status, despite his twenty-five years of experience in the department; no reason for the demotion was released to the press._

_Her executor, however, proved to be none other than French socialite Henri Desjardins – _Witch Weekly_ subscribers will note him as a contender for this year's _Most Charming Smile_ Award, though Sirius Black remains the forerunner favorite for the competition. Mr. Desjardins released only a brief statement. "Madame Gamp has given me explicit instructions regarding the execution of her will. It will be an honor to do this last favor for a kind-hearted friend such as her."_

"Who the heck does that damn Frenchie think he is, contending for my award?" Sirius demanded angrily. His audience however, was neither sizable nor inexperienced with his vanity.

"There has to be other potential candidates for an award, Sirius. Otherwise they might as well just call it, 'The Award We Give To Sirius Black for Existing Another Year'." Hermione said wryly. Sirius' brow furrowed slightly at her unsympathetic response.

"Yeah well you're just a Hogwarts drop-out anyway. Go take up more space in my mansion without giving me anything in return, why don't you?" She harrumphed and rolled her eyes, cleaning up all of the plates in the kitchen, excepting Sirius', which was still full of bacon and ham.

"Oh look Hermione, you graduated to House-Elf status!" Tonks crowed, patting the other girl on the back. At her, Hermione merely rolled her eyes.

"Like you're any better, Tonks. No half-blood Aurors any more, are there?" Tonks smirked the slight away. Hermione sighed slightly, then added, "But at least you have an employed husband. Hard to believe a pureblood werewolf gets more acceptance than a half-blood in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – even if it is only because they turn a blind eye to creatures that kill Muggle babies."

Remus strode into the room at just this minute, straightening his robe and sticking a few quills in his pocket in preparation to leave. He gave his wife a quick nip on the cheek and commented, "I don't think that's quite the policy, Hermione. But I am glad of the bit of tolerance. You find something positive in every bad situation, I suppose."

"Tell that to your Muggleborn janitor," she grumbled under her breath; the others in the room sat in a bit of awkward silence until Sirius broke it.

"Who wants to work, anyway? So Moony, you invited to that party next weekend? It's going to be a big to-do – I'm pretty sure the judges for the Most Charming Smile are all going to be there, so of course I have to go –"

"I _really_ don't understand what your obsession with that award is, Padfoot. But no, half-breeds, while marginally employable to fight other dark creatures, are not eligible for socialite get-togethers." Remus wolfed down a few slices of toast and an egg as he chatted.

"They aren't socialite gatherings any more, Moony old boy. Now they're _official_ socialite gatherings. Wizengamot edict to try to keep me out, I think – made them organized by the Ministry. Didn't work, since I knew a bloke in the Department of Magical Games who they promoted to the Social Gathering Commission, and he put my name on the list – but the venues are even better now. Enchanted forests, meadows with unicorns, castle ruins hidden in the midst of Muggle towns – the Ministry has some neat places ferreted away that they had nothing to do with until the Purebloods wanted some wicked parties. Hogwarts even hosted one, a few years ago. I pranked Snape and carved three more notches in my old bedpost – it was just like old times!" Hermione rolled her eyes, while Remus smiled.

"I'm sure it was, Padfoot." Sirius nodded enthusiastically.

"It was! One of the witches was even wearing her old Hogwarts robe – some serious nostalgia there – not to mention kinkiness – let me tell you!" Hermione finally left the room in disgust, and Remus looked at his watch.

"Three and a half minutes, old dog. You're losing your touch." Sirius narrowed his brow thoughtfully.

"I know, I thought she'd leave after I pulled out the 'Most Charming Smile Award' topic, but you interrupted me." Remus shook his head appreciatively at the game and gathered up a final piece of toast and grabbed his briefcase from beside the counter.

"Time to earn some money. Take care of our babies, dear," he kissed Tonks once more and left with a dull 'crack'.

"Now," Sirius began thoughtfully as he scratched his chin and his eyes rolled up to the left in concentration, "What can I wear that'll bring me home a set of rich twins I can introduce to the Black Staff?"

**oooOOOooo**

"Hold still," Harry chastised, "Your hair still isn't right."

"I see it only took a decade in prison to turn you gay. I managed to last sixty just fine – even when they put a teenage boy in a cell connected to mine by a tunnel." Grindelwald, currently disguised as a tanned Italian, smirked as Harry smeared more hair gel on his head and waved his wand about.

"Oh, shut up. Learn the damn hair charms yourself if you're going to bitch – I've been casting them for you for months now." Harry turned away and adjusted his own dress robes. A deep blue creation that Madam Malkin had been only too happy to custom fit to him; they looked striking with his current guise's eyes and hair, so the witch said.

"Unlike you, I'm not planning to become a housewitch. Therefore will not be learning the charms. So get over here and cast them." Harry grudgingly obliged and fixed his hair.

"Why did you pick an alias known for his intricate hair styles if you have no desire to learn the charms to actually assume the identity?" Grindelwald conjured up a mirror with a snap of his own wand – liberated months ago from a German museum and replaced with a transfigured stick – and eyed his hair from several angles before deeming it acceptable.

"He's technically one of your assistants, so I assumed that he wouldn't be around if you weren't. And naturally, I was right." Effortlessly and between breaths, Grindelwald assumed a thick Italian accent. "Now, on to business. I will arrive at the party via Apparition in exactly two minutes. I will greet Dolohov and offer my apologies that the Italian Ambassador is feeling under the weather and asked me to attend in his stead. As for you, _Monsieur Desjardin_," he said, reminding Harry to also assume the French accent of his alias some time before actually needing to be in character. "I heard tell that a pumpkin outside will become a Portkey in seven minutes, and will then proceed to transform into a carriage suitable for Your Grace. It will take you to the party, making quite an entrance. I even matched the color to your robe for this evening." Harry nodded, looking suitably impressed.

"A contingency-based transfiguration and locomotion spells. A bit much for a little party, don't you think?" Grindelwald grinned at the implied compliment.

"Not just locomotion spells, but permanent ones at that. Technically, they're illegal on anything other than brooms, but I don't think you'll have a problem. Layers of them, too – it took me all morning to finally get it right, but it should be nearly as agile as a broomstick. Some of us aren't so caught up in political games that we allow our spellcasting to fall to the wayside." Harry rolled his eyes and glanced pointedly at the dark hair on the ruddy Italian, currently in an exaggerated wave.

"And yet you still need me to do your hair." Grindelwald let out a "hmph" in reply and with a firm 'pop' departed for the party.

**oooOOOooo**

"It's the talk of the town, Lucius, I'm just shocked you hadn't heard!" The overly large woman had a voice that was far too loud and far too squeaky for a human being. She had a prodigious amount of make up applied to her round face and was, in the opinion of Lucius Malfoy, a hideous person in every way.

"Wherever young Barty is, I'm certain he's faring well, madam," he responded curtly.

"I'm surprised you aren't more concerned, Lucius…didn't you know Crouch quite well?" Another woman, far too much like the first for Lucius' taste, asked nosily.

"I wouldn't say I knew him any better than I knew any of Draco's other instructors when he was at Hogwarts. Except for Professor Snape, of course, fine teacher that he is. But no, Barty's own years at Hogwarts didn't overlap mine as Severus' did, so we never became very familiar with each other. However, Draco commented positively on his instruction, however; my son's praise doesn't come easily, so he must be a fine wizard. As I said before, I'm confident he's fine, despite having given Britain the slip." The old bags had no way of knowing what Lucius had in fact found out about the current whereabouts of the late Barty Crouch. Nor the sensational circumstances of his being found – the Dark Mark hadn't been seen in ten years, and it required a personal trip by the Malfoy scion to dispel it before it was spotted by international reporters.

Not even Lord Voldemort had been privy to that information yet – he was busy, far too busy to be interrupted by such news. Lucius also had not quite determined the safest way to tell that news to his master.

"I say, Lucius, you 'aven't 'eard a zing?" A boisterously loud voice with a thick French accent interrupted his thoughts. Lucius grimaced slightly before he replaced his expressionless mask and turned to the Frenchman.

"On-ree," he said coldly. His exagerrated pronunciation was intended to be a poignant reminder of their last meeting just before the death of the Lady Gamp. Henri, however, did not seem to take note and merely scooped Lucius up in a bear hug, kissing both cheeks.

"Oh, Lucius, it is always such a pleasure to see you! Anyway, ladies, I 'ave been 'earing ze most fantastical rumors about zis Crouch! Why, everyzing from ze Unspeakables snatching 'im up for a secret mission to a torrid love affair with a student. I believe ze last one 'ad ze young girl's father taking revenge on 'er be'alf." With a puzzled look, he turned back to Malfoy and said vapidly, "It is simply remarkable zat you 'ave 'eard nothing, Lucius, _non_?" Lucius' jaw tightened reflexively, but he replied calmly.

"I merely intended to express that I had not heard anything credible. The outlandish things you said are so impossible that anyone who knows anything about British society at all would know that they are patently false. For instance, it is known who Unspeakables are, it's simply a bit vague as to what exactly they do. And from what my own son has said in regards to his character, Barty Crouch would never have involved himself in an affair with a student. And as one of the finest Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers that Hogwarts has ever known, I'm certain that if he had, a student's father would be hard-pressed to exact revenge."

"Ah, I suppose you English do not 'ave ze Veela students, of course. Zey would be 'ard for a young professor to resist, I zink…" The ladies' laughter grated on Lucius' nerves, and he quickly excused himself to get some refreshments.

At the table, he grabbed an hors d'oeuvre – some sort of oyster, he failed to much pay attention – and ordered a rather potent mixed drink from the bar.

"Lucius, old chap!" A firm slap on the back caused the senior Malfoy to almost smirk in anticipation. Here, at least, was someone far too stupid to ever get the leg up on him in political machinations.

"Black. I'm so pleased you showed up. After that last ball and the dreadful mix-up with the poisons, no one was quite sure if you'd even pull through, much less attend another." Lucius tapped a finger against the corner of his mouth as he mockingly paused for a moment. "Now, as I recall the results of the investigation, you managed to avoid the poisoned calamari, the Draught of Living Death-spiked goblet went to the witch on your left, and – wasn't it your dancing partner, hit by a stray spell? However, the desert that somehow had some Amortentia mixed in finally got to you. What an odd series of coincidences that night…" Black's grin only faded marginally at Lucius' recollection.

"And I'm sure that if I hadn't been slipped an antidote – probably by an admirer of my smile, or possibly a date – I'd have been ferreted away to be the center of amusement for a bunch of Death Eaters. Excuse me, I misspoke; I meant your close friends and political allies." Lucius smiled as the bartender called out his "Horntail's Hug" finished and he downed it in a long draw.

"Ah, Black. You and your baseless accusations – they really might get you in trouble some day. If you had any political pull at all, they might already have done so. But then, what harm can an old mutt do, puttering about, anyway?" Just then, an intolerable sight that caught his eye. His expression shifted from poorly concealed contempt to hot fury.

"Excuse me, Black. I think my wife needs to be excused from unpleasant company." Black, too, saw who his cousin was speaking to and his face lit up excitedly.

"I've heard that Frenchman's been racking up notches on his bedpost, Lucius. You probably want to keep your precious missus away!" Lucius fought an urge to curse Black, curse Desjardins, and physically grab Narcissa away as he approached them. Narcissa's hand was delicately wrapped around Henri's arm and they were animatedly discussing whatever topic came up in what was apparently a stimulating conversation.

"-And I found zat ward to be ze most out of date. It seems that Mr. Malfoy's money didn't reach all of St. Mungo's after all, and that particular ward 'adn't been remodeled since ze 1920's. 'owever, I personally implemented a few changes and recommended some beautiful plants zat I think will really liven ze place up." Henri finally turned his face long enough from his companion to notice that Lucius had come up to them and was giving the Frenchman a murderous glare.

"Oh, Lucius! I'm so glad you're 'ere, I was just discussing your philanthropy with zis _gorgeous_ young lady. Lucius Malfoy, please meet Ms. Narcissa – I'm sorry, dear, I'm afraid I didn't catch your last name." A dainty smile rose in reply to Henri's charming grin.

"It's Malfoy, Henri. Narcissa Malfoy." Henri adapted a surprised look as he eyed Lucius.

"Why Lucius, I never knew you 'ad a daughter. Or is zis a niece, per'aps? 'ow are you related, my dear?" At this proclamation, Narcissa let out a throaty laugh. Lucius remained still, though the hand closest to his wand made slight clenching movements.

"Oh no, Henri, I'm Lucius' wife. Do you really think I look quite that young?" As Henri insisted that the lady must have been a childhood match to the much older Lucius, the senior Malfoy finally snapped and attempted to object.

"That's –!" He managed to choke out only a single word before he realized that his throat had seized up for a reason other than his anger. His hand grabbed his neck as he tried to loosen his collar, but it was no use.

"Lucius?" Narcissa asked, still clinging to Henri's arm. She released him and hurried to her husband's side. "Lucius, are you alright?" He batted her away as his face turned purple and he clawed at his neck, leaving bloody gashes where his perfectly manicured nails dug in.

His other arm was grabbed by another woman, totally unfamiliar to him. When she hissed in his ear, however, Lucius – even in his confused, asphyxiating state – recognized the voice of his sister-in-law, Bellatrix.

"You idiot! Did you take the poison I planted for Sirius? Who else loves oysters and cheap booze? Gah, you're an _imbecile_!" In a louder voice that was only slightly disguised, she called out calmly, "Someone take him to St. Mungo's!" Narcissa nodded shakily and Apparated both of them away.

Unfortunately, she was both quite disturbed by the evening's events and unused to Side-Along Apparation; Lucius' left foot was splinched and remained on the floor.

Unnoticed, Bellatrix cursed it a few times before transferring the offending limb to the St. Mungo's cafeteria with a flick of her wand. She put an innocent expression on her face and walked away.

**oooOOOooo**

"He'll be just fine, Mrs. Malfoy – I assure you, he's getting the best of care. We did have some trouble reattaching the foot, but the limp should only last a few months, with the proper rehabilitation regimen – potions and exercise, nothing horrendous." The Medi-witch delivering this news to a seated and fairly calm Narcissa Malfoy was an older lady, Harry noted from his position down the hall.

"I was hoping we might return to our manor this evening. Will that be possible?" She replied coolly. The nurse smiled condescendingly, conveying her thoughts on that rather clearly.

"We will definitely need to monitor your husband for at least another day, Mrs. Malfoy. He very nearly died from a potent poison we still haven't identified. There could be many side-effects we still aren't seeing. And besides, we've been keeping him asleep for a few hours now –tomorrow, the Healer will have a better idea when he can be safely released from our care." The Medi-witch retreated to an office stacked with paperwork being constantly notated upon by moving quills, leaving Narcissa alone; Harry quickly swept in, immediately conjuring a pot of tea and two fine china cups with a fabricated crest on them.

"Oh my dear Narcissa!" He said in an extravagantly exaggerated swoon, "I 'ave been simply beside myself wiz worry about Lucius – 'ave you 'eard any news?"

"Thank you, Henri – this is possibly the finest conjured tea I've enjoyed in some time. No, there's been no firm news, but I've been informed that he is recovering and is currently asleep." Narcissa politely sipped her tea; for a grieving wife, Harry noted that she did not seem particularly upset.

"Of course, Madame – I am French, ze culinary arts are naturally fascinating to me. And I do put myself at your service, if you need someone to rattle some cages around 'ere. I 'ave done some volunteering on a few of ze floors 'ere, so I might be able to throw my weight around, as it were." A dashing smile and a pat of his lean stomach accentuated the offer, and Narcissa granted him a slight smile in response.

"Thank you, Henri, but I myself have been a volunteer for many years, most recently on the new children's floor addition whose creation I sponsored. Between that and my husband's well-known name – I don't know if you noticed, but this is actually one of the Lucius Malfoy wards, ironically enough – I have been attracting quite a bit of attention. I'm sure everyone involved will do their best to keep me informed." The mention of Lucius' philanthropy grated on Harry's nerves, but he kept his smile in place and changed to a topic that did not involve her husband.

"Why Narcissa, I didn't know you enjoyed volunteering 'ere as well! My, what a small world, _non_? I've always thought it particularly rewarding, 'elping ze patients recover. Alas, if not for ze demands of managing my family, I might 'ave continued my schooling to become an 'ealer myself." Here, Narcissa seemed to find a kindred spirit – as Harry expected, volunteering at St. Mungo's was not a common pastime for many of her station or political affiliations.

"Yes, I know what you mean. The children are simply wonderful to work with. Before I started to champion the addition – nearly a decade ago – they were simply interspersed with the other patients on various floors according to their conditions."

"Ah yes," Harry interrupted. "But from every time I've visited ze children's ward, I zink zey are much 'appier being all together wiz youngsters zeir own age; besides, ze 'ealers can simply Apparate to ze new ward, so zey would receive care that is just as good." Narcissa graced him with another broader smile as he seemed to understand her feelings.

"Exactly, Henri – you wouldn't believe how much the Healers resisted the idea at first, claiming that the additional Apparations would put undue stress on them." Narcissa rolled her eyes, even after all this time growing agitated by the pettiness of the professional wizards and witches.

"Oh, I've seen my share of ridiculous notions from 'ealers. Anyway, Narcissa, as much as I'm enjoying zis lovely conversation – and I do 'ope you'll agree to 'ave lunch wiz me ze next time we are boz 'ere volunteering – I zink you should get some rest. Zey are keeping 'im asleep anyway, so you might as well do ze same. After such an exciting party, I zink I need some rest as well, _non_?" Narcissa nodded and Harry hugged her tightly and pasted light kisses on each of her cheeks.

"Of course, Henri. It is certainly getting late, after all, and Lucius will be here in the morning. I look forward to lunch with you sometime this next week, then." She Apparated home and Harry was about to follow when he heard a commotion in the hall.

A large, rough looking wizard was being levitated through the hall by an entourage of Healers and Medi-witches. They were frantically discussing the problems with his health in hushed voices so as not to attract undue attention, but Harry only caught a few words.

"…Macnair again…some kind of venom, we aren't sure…"

"Reverse…general antivenom infusion…keep him sedated…monitor every few hours…"

It was enough for Harry. Macnair was on the list of Death Eaters he knew personally, from the Buckbeak incident in his time at Hogwarts.

Two Death Eaters in close proximity was too tempting of a target, even if they were in a hospital and he had not planned their deaths.

**oooOOOooo**

It took just over an hour of sneaking around Disillusioned before Harry was able to formulate a solid plan that he considered good enough.

This particular wing of St. Mungo's was located in a different building than the original hospital, as it was a Malfoy-financed addition specializing in poisonings. As Harry explored the particulars of it, he found that it was originally an outdated Muggle building. And as he looked in the basement, he saw that the electronic wiring had not been torn out when the wizards moved in.

"Typical of them, to keep this Muggle crap despite not knowing what it is." Harry murmured to himself in his own voice and accent, having ditched the 'Henri' persona upon Narcissa's departure. Of course, Harry knew only a little about Muggle electronics as well, and certainly not enough to cause them to start a fire.

A quick Apparition outside to Muggle London, however, provided him with matches – the Aurors investigating would no doubt search for evidence of magical fire, especially Fiendfyre, which had been Harry's first idea; he doubted their familiarity with Muggle matches, however, particularly Draco Malfoy's familiarity – and so it was only a few minutes later that he had located the area underneath Macnair's and Malfoy's rooms and had liberally soaked the wooden boards in lighter fluid.

Disillusioned once more, he sneaked up the stairs to the hospital proper, past the Medi-witch station, and into Macnair's room. He picked up the man's wand from the bedside table and put it conveniently out of reach, should he wake up despite the sedatives.

"_Tergeo_," Harry muttered under his breath, siphoning off some of the lighter fluid that had leaked onto his right hand and smearing it on Macnair's gown. There was no response from the unconscious patient, so Harry crept back out of the room and went over to Malfoy's room a few doors down; he waited outside as he heard voices from inside the room.

"Yes, I'm sure she was quite concerned; by all appearances, the Malfoys genuinely care for each other – somewhat odd, considering their station, but not unheard of. If you knew Narcissa, though, you'd find that she does have a soft spot in her, despite the rather…frigid exterior she exhibits. I remember a long-term patient here, a little boy with blonde hair and a toothy grin – no family, or at least none that ever come to see him. She always visits him, treats him very well. I even heard talk that she considered adopting him, but apparently Lucius put his foot down at that. But yes, she…can be a nice woman, if you get on the right side of her." This voice was male, Harry noted, and seemed to speak with some kind of authority over the other – probably the Healer, Harry deduced.

"Well I suppose, but she seemed awfully demanding towards me; wanting constant updates, wanting to take him home immediately. I told her we needed to keep him here over night, and that he was sedated anyway. She finally left, though."

"Well, we don't strictly need to keep him sedated any more – go ahead and administer the reversal potion – three vials of Everard's Easy Knock-Out Reverser – and we'll see how he sleeps on his own. He'll probably be a bit queasy when he wakes up, but we need to make sure he can keep some food down before we release him tomorrow, and the faster we get the sedative out of his system, the milder the nausea will be tomorrow morning." Harry almost cursed aloud – a non-sedated Malfoy would be more difficult to deal with than an unconscious one. He heard the Healer Apparate away, followed after a minute by the Medi-witch, and then bustled downstairs.

There was a moment's hesitation when it actually came time for him to do it. After all, his revenge had so far been rather limited, with no chance of bystander casualties. He'd taken precautions by having the Death Eaters with the most risk, as well as this being a rather isolated unit of St. Mungo's; there was still a chance of innocents dying, however.

"Well," Harry said to no one in particular as he looked at the innocent match in his hand. "In for a knut and all that."

He struck the match and tossed it up against the ceiling of the basement underneath Macnair; it lit up easily, and he hoped it would work its way to the inside of the Death Eater's room quick enough.

He was striking the match to start Malfoy's room aflame as well when an alarm went off – far sooner than he had expected. He flubbed the lighting of the first two matches, but finally got one lit and ignited the planks underneath Malfoy's room. Certain not to leave any evidence of magic near the source of the fire, Harry crept up the stairs before Apparating back to his and Grindelwald's warehouse home.

**oooOOOooo**

A battery of cosmetic charms later found him once more at the Ministry Ball, which was winding down after an exciting night for the socialites.

"Assistant Ambassador, I don't believe we've met – Henri Desjardins, at your service." Harry said to Grindelwald, who was occupying himself at the refreshment table, casually sipping a blue punch.

"Monsieur Desjardins, a pleasure. I've heard much about you tonight; your emergence upon the social scene of London has made quite the impression on many of the guests here. I'm only sorry that the Ambassador couldn't be here tonight himself to meet you." This was a chastisement from Grindelwald, one that would no doubt be repeated in a more obvious manner once they had some privacy – Harry needed to keep a low profile for awhile, perhaps spend some time as the Italian ambassador. He had every intention of keeping a low profile, but would be doing so volunteering at St. Mungo's with a certain Lady Malfoy, not attending boring meetings at the Ministry.

"Indeed, I look forward to zat meeting, 'owever distant it may be. I've 'eard several rumors myself about 'im – perhaps we could trade a bit of gossip when we meet." Changing the subject, Harry said, "Quite ze bit of excitement tonight at ze ball. Lucius 'ad a bad oyster – you know 'ow oysters and brandy mix, of course. I went and visited 'im at ze 'ospital, just to be sure 'e was alright. 'e was stable, but ze poison…put 'im in a lot of 'ot water. I'm not sure if zings will cool down. Anozzer patient zere, a Monsieur MacNair – 'e was in 'ot water too. It would be such a shame, if zose fine gentlemen were to…go up in smoke." Grindelwald's eyes flared for a second – Harry had always before consulted with the other man and meticulously planned his every move. He knew Grindelwald would be upset and worried that Harry's plan was too abrupt and might reveal them.

"Indeed. Well, Monsieur, if you'll excuse me I believe that the party is wrapping itself up, and I should be going home, old man that I am. A pleasant evening to you." The message in Grindelwald's eyes was clear: Get home immediately, without arousing suspicion.

Harry intended to do just that. A problem, however, caught his eye.

He had known even before the Lucius incident that Bellatrix Lestrange was somewhere in the crowd, probably even in disguise. She had revealed herself then, but he had not had a chance to keep track of her. Finally, Harry spotted her, smiling coyly as she stood next to Sirius Black. Harry gritted his teeth, but he knew he could not leave anyone to the tender mercies of Bellatrix.

The younger man who stood next to Sirius convinced him even further. He was slightly chubby, wearing a nervous smile and seeming not to quite belong anywhere. Almost unchanged from when Harry knew him a decade and more ago, Neville Longbottom was someone else he would not let Bellatrix get her claws in. Without a plan, or indeed so much as an inkling of how he could help without revealing himself, he steered towards Sirius and Neville.

"So I guess the only thing left to discuss is which two of you are coming to the Black family manor, and who's heading off to the Longbottom estate tonight, right ladies?" Harry had to fight a snort at Sirius' pathetic pickup line. He subtly jabbed his wand and cast a simple detection charm – anything more complicated would have involved waving his wand – and all three of the "ladies" lit up like a flashlight. Definitely all kinds of magic making them look like that, then – but was it harmless cosmetic charms or complex transfigurations hiding Death Eaters behind cute faces?

"Looks like I get twins tonight, Neville! Have fun, mate, and don't do anything I wouldn't. But if you think of something I might not, write it down and I'll try it out, eh?" The ladies laughed and even Neville grinned at Sirius' joke. Then he tossed back a shot of amber liquid and made to grab an oyster. Harry was almost next to him now, and a quick glance at Bellatrix's face told him that he needed to act quickly.

"Black – defiling good French food, are you?" He called spitefully. Sirius paused right before slurping the oyster and glared at him.

"Oi, Frenchie! Shouldn't you be practicing your smile in the mirror or something? I hear you're trying to dethrone me as reigning champion of the Smile, so you'd better practice." Sirius smirked as the three ladies laughed and even Neville smiled, and made a move to slurp down the oyster he held in his face.

It was decision time, and Harry had only a few options to save Sirius' life – especially since he'd already burnt down the area of St. Mungo's capable of helping him should he ingest the same poison Malfoy did.

So Harry hit him, square in the jaw.

The oyster went flying all over Bellatrix's gown, and Sirius himself collapsed on the ground, hitting one of the pair of twins in the face. They scattered, and even Bellatrix left, sensing that her opportunity to kill either Sirius or Neville had passed.

"See if you can win zat award now, pretty boy," Harry said haughtily, glancing at a wide-eyed Neville who was backing away.

By the time a red-faced and hopping mad Sirius Black had regained his bearings, he had learned that Henri Desjardins had already retrieved his jacket and Apparated home, so he settled for swearing revenge and going home himself, minus the set of twins he had been hoping to snare.


	4. Shadows of a Former Life

A/N: This has perhaps been a long time coming, so I apologize. Just a note to the readers of my other stories – none of them have been abandoned…though perhaps they have been pushed to the wayside. Nonetheless, I have material for them, and plans to eventually update and finish them, difficult as that may seem to believe.

In any case, thanks to everyone who helped make this happen – Sophie and vlad for betaing (and Ellisande for recently joining the team!), as well as everyone at Dark Lord Potter. Your comments and help have made this story and this chapter, in particular, a lot better than it otherwise might have been. Without further ado, on with the story!

_**Escape to Darkness: Chapter Four**_

_Shadows of a Former Life_

Consciousness came upon Lucius Malfoy rather slowly. There was a distinct grogginess in his head, as though a large amount of cotton had been stuffed between his ears.

It was somewhat hot in his room, he decided once his brain realized he was awake; it was getting uncomfortable. His left arm in particular was very warm; he could not feel enough to be in any actual pain, but he expected that if someone took out the cotton from between his ears, it might hurt. His head lazily rolled so that he could look at his left arm and he was shocked to see that his arm was inches away from a fire!

In a hospital!

What kind of negligent fool ran this ward, anyway?

Hurriedly he attempted to move his arm, but its response was sluggish, and it took a few seconds before he had moved enough of himself that he fell entirely out of the hospital bed onto the floor. How ignoble.

The fall helped to clear one layer of the fog from his mind, so with some determination, Lucius was able to grab his wand after reaching up a few feet to the nightstand at the side of the bed. Flowers in one of his favorite vases from the manor crashed to the floor and splintered as he fumbled around for his wand, dousing his hospital gown in water and glass shards.

For the first time he noticed that he was wearing said hospital gown, and that his posterior was uncovered. St. Mungo's would be receiving notification of that as soon as he got out of here alive, he vowed.

Still crawling because his attempts to stand ended in nothing but dizziness and a stream of reddish brown vomit, Lucius finally made it to the doorway. He knew his mouth and right arm were streamed with sick, and likely part of his gown too – he could smell the reek of it even in his befuddled state. As he approached the doorway, he heard the crack of several Apparitions. Voices were running through his head as too many people tried to talk at once over the din of the fire.

He vaguely thought of Apparating to safety; with his befuddled head, however, he knew he would splinch himself terribly, at best.

He could see several rooms that had been affected by the fire; his own was by no means the worst. Four rooms to the left and one to his right were also belching smoke. To his immediate left, three hysterical Medi-witches and one even more hysterical young Healer were hurriedly shuffling an elderly patient out of his room – it was one of the rooms that was spewing thick black smoke.

"Someone light up a cigar? I always said those things were trouble!" The man said, obviously addled as he waved his arm at one of the Medi-witches. His arm was the reason he was in St. Mungo's – it had been swallowed by an angry African Man-Trap, whose roots were frantically squirming to get away from the fire, and had begun clinging to the patient's leg.

Lucius used the doorway to pull himself to his feet – he retched and coughed as he did so, not noticing that the smoke was thicker as he stood up. This earned him the attention of one of the Medi-witches.

"Mr. Malfoy! You shouldn't be up in your condition!" She was young, perhaps a few years older than Draco, and quite pretty – likely at least a half-blood, with those cheekbones, he reckoned slowly.

"My bloody arm was burning, Medi-witch! Do you expect me to wait for approval from negligent hospital staff before I get up?" Lucius glared at the girl, who had enough sense to look sheepish and shake her head slightly.

"And besides," he continued his tirade, "Apparently you people cannot even manage to keep a simple hospital under control, so I do not believe my condition should be your concern –" he sputtered, taking time to make sure his tongue and mouth performed the same motions at the right time. It was a bit of a mumble, but he thought it was quite good. As an addendum, he looked at the nametag on her chest and finished, "Anna McTavish."

"I apologize, Mr. Malfoy, but the entirety of St. Mungo's is critically understaffed today – there wasn't a single Medi-witch or Healer on shift in this satellite ward until I was called in just fifteen minutes ago! Everyone with the proper social standing and seniority is attending one of the Ministry's parties, so there are only three Healers and five Medi-witches trying to run all of St. Mungo's." Lucius rolled his eyes at her.

"Anyway, we need to get you out of here now, Mr. Malfoy – the fires were already too entrenched for any of the charms we know to extinguish them – and no one is at the Ministry either, so they're no help. We're evacuating patients through the Floo system to the main wing of the hospital – it's a completely separate building with Fireproofing Charms on it anyway, and they have extra beds ready for the patients here." She put her arm around his back and helped support him, leading him toward the main Floo.

"Why wouldn't there be Fireproofing Charms on this building?" Anna looked a bit queerly at Lucius before responding.

"I heard that the benefactor of the ward thought that it was a frivolous expense, and wasn't willing to pay for it." Lucius fought back a glare and continued on to the Floo without another question.

Predictably, the large fireplace was near one of the most heavily burning rooms. Lucius noted a large shelf of potions to one side, and instantly knew it was a bad combination.

Few of the Healers would have had experience with fires, but Lucius had burnt down enough Muggle homes and buildings to know that sometimes liquids exploded for no reason he knew of – that shelf was possibly a time bomb. He was about to attempt to call out a warning when he heard another young doctor cry out.

"You two get Mr. Sackworth to the main wing through the Floo. MacNair's still sedated, I've got to try to get him out!" Lucius choked out a cough again – though he didn't much notice through his half-consciousness, the acrid smoke was also making his eyes water, further obscuring his vision.

"MacNair's here?" Lucius demanded hazily. His head finally a bit clearer, he shook the young Medi-witch off his arm and followed the Healer to the doorway to MacNair's room. Thick smoke immediately assaulted them and they both coughed, the Healer holding his jacket over his mouth.

"What are you doing, a real wizard uses his wand!" Lucius said, swaying on his feet. "_Ebublio_." The Bubble-Head charm cleared the air around his head, allowing him to breathe easily. The Healer, chagrined, followed suit. Unfortunately, Lucius could see almost instantly that there was no hope for his fellow Death Eater – flames had consumed him, and he was now merely a charring corpse.

"I…I-oh God!" The Healer was frantic, his mouth gaping as he wrung his hands and stood around, uncertain what to do.

"He's dead, boy. Let's get out of here. Now!" The Healer wrapped an arm around Lucius to support him, though the boy was shaking so bad himself that he did little good; the McTavish Medi-witch had waited for them and was much more stable, taking over.

The doctor ran for the fireplace and grabbed some Floo powder off of the nearby shelf, accidentally tossing in the entire pot. His shaking hands had destabilized the entire rickety shelf, which was now careening comically.

It finally toppled, and the volatile ingredients shattered on the floor, a 'BOOM!' erupting from them as they splashed and mixed together. The shockwave tossed the young doctor into and through the green flames in the fireplace. Lucius had reflexively shoved the girl to the side when it exploded, but the move had taken him off balance and he was starting to lean forward as the explosion hit; he took the brunt of the blast directly to his face before being thrown several feet and landing on his back.

When he next opened his eyes, the world was spinning again – much like the last time he had awoken, except this time there was a distinct pressure on his nose. Lucius knew he was far too medicated to feel any pain, but he had possibly broken his nose. And maybe the rest of his face, too, if that was any real indication.

Lucius had to think very hard in order to remember the sequence of events leading to him breaking his face. There had been a fire…and Mulciber – no, MacNair! – had died…and then the Floo exploded. Ah yes, the explosion must have knocked him out.

There was a woman kneeling over him now, moving her lips – she was not talking, though. She had vivid blue eyes – they were quite pretty. He always thought his own steely grey eyes were one of his better features, really, so they were something he looked for in a witch. Wait a moment, he definitely recognized this somewhat pretty – in an unkempt, too-busy-to-care-for-her-appearance-with-WonderWitch-products way – Medi-witch. She had helped him before, when he found out about MacNair's death. She was still moving her lips with no sound coming out, and pulled out her wand with a concerned look on her face. Maybe she was more addled than he was – wait, then she thrust her bosom right in Lucius' face!

A sudden burst of pain accompanied a blast of sound, and Lucius cried out. His pain-relieving potions immediately dulled the pain in his ears – spreading throughout his entire head to numb it – and he glared at the young witch.

"Mr. Malfoy, your eardrums were burst in the explosion. I- I think I healed them. Can you hear me?" She was nervous, scared probably. He tried to suppress his natural reaction to pain – gruff anger – and merely nodded affirmatively.

"Alright. You have a few more burns now, mostly on your arms and face. Nothing we can't fix with a bit of Burn Healing Paste once we get out of here, though." Lucius could tell that the girl was trying to hold up a brave face for him, but her voice quavered when she mentioned getting out – she did not think their survival likely.

As though a wizard the caliber of Lucius Malfoy could perish in a fire like some common Muggle. Even if it had already claimed MacNair – the man had been barely capable of dealing even with animals, anyway; he was no real loss.

Lucius imperiously jerked his arm away from her after she helped him to stand and made his way – with copious assistance from a railing on the nearby wall – toward a small door at the end of one of the hallways. "EXIT" was illuminated in flashing green paint above the door. He recast the Bubble-Head Charm and proceeded to lead the way to safety.

The hallway they were heading through bordered the origin of the fire on one side, and made for an odd spectacle – one side bellowed smoke and flame, while the other was as-yet untouched. Lucius and the girl were making good progress. They were only twenty feet from the door when he heard a hacking cough from one of the rooms they had already passed – one of the rooms that belched smoke.

"Who's in there?" He wearily demanded of Anna, his strength exhausted from the flight from the hospital.

"I don't know, Mr. Malfoy, I've never worked in this wing before!" Her voice was muffled from the Bubble-Head Charm, but Lucius understood her well enough. With one last glance at the glowing green paint, flashing tantalizingly, he wondered just what exactly he was doing as he turned around.

"He's alive. And he's coming with us." She nodded and followed his lead back to the room.

The ceiling had partially collapsed in the patient's room; most of it lay smoldering across the floor. The bed was empty, but another cough indicated that someone was underneath the burning ceiling tiles.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_!" Lucius called clearly. With a bit of hesitation, the mass of ceiling and insulation floated up three feet; underneath, what seemed to be an elderly man let out what might have been a relieved sigh. Patches of his skin were alternately red and blistered or blackened slightly, charred, and Lucius imagined he had to be in unimaginable pain.

Anna made a move to go and physically pull him out to the hall, before Lucius angrily interrupted her, yelling, "Are you a bloody witch or not?"

She sheepishly pulled out her own wand and summoned the burned patient from across the room with a quick "_Accio_!"

The man shrieked as some of the skin on his back was left on the floor. Anna retched at seeing the bloody trail the old man left.

Lucius let the ceiling drop once more, and did the whimpering man two kindnesses.

"_Stupefy_! _Mobilicorpus_!" As he levitated the man, he felt legs give out from the exhaustion – Anna was able to get a hand under his armpit and kept him upright, just barely.

She performed a quick battery of charms, and the older patient was wrapped from head to toe in clean bandages – though were quickly soiled with blood as his back soaked them through.

"Let's go now, Mr. Malfoy. There we are, don't forget to bring him along." In the time they'd taken to rescue the patient, however, the ceiling on the right half of the hallway had collapsed and was actively burning, blocking the path to their escape.

"Oh no! We'll need to find another way out!" Anna said somewhat hysterically. Lucius barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes - it would have made him far too dizzy and nauseous.

"Flame-Freezing Charm on them." He said as he struggled to keep the elderly burned man from dropping with another _Mobilicorpus_.

"Oh, right! _Congelo Incendia_!" The trio passed next to them and the hot flames felt like nothing more than a warm breeze as the small fire was rendered virtually harmless.

Anna blasted the exit door open and all three emerged into the warm streetlight of nighttime Muggle London.

**oooOOOooo**

Two rubies burned as they glared at Lucius Malfoy – he knew it was impossible, but he swore that the recent burns, covered in a thick orange paste that had dried into a crust, itched and heated up a bit under his Master's gaze.

"I must have misheard you, Lucius. You couldn't possibly have known for _days_ that one of my most loyal, most trusted Death Eaters was dead before it crossed your mind that I might be interested in this information. No, you would not have waited until _another_ was also killed in what seems to have been a tragic accident – an accident where you yourself were injured – before you informed me that Barty's death _may_ have been more – may have been an _act of war against me!_" With his final words, he waved his wand and the decorations of the room exploded out from their places on the wall in a terrible cacophony of destruction. Lord Voldemort's voice, which Lucius rarely recalled ever reaching above a sinister whisper, had risen to a shout; the Dark Lord's neck was bulging inhumanly, and his face was flushed a sickly orange, where a normal wizard would have turned red or purple – despite many attempts, Lord Voldemort had never regained a true human body.

"No, my Lord, of course not!" Lucius backpedaled quickly. "I only knew that Barty was missing for some time – I expected him to be off on a task for you, and who am I to question your orders? No, it was only recently that I obtained proof of Barty's demise. That very night was the party, with several attempts on my life. I fear a conspiracy, my Lord." Lord Voldemort had calmed down noticeably when the betrayal of Lucius was taken out of consideration; Lucius was secretly thankful that his skill with Occlumency had concealed the truth from the probing eyes of his Master, but quickly banished that thought from his head.

Voldemort picked up a large red book from where it had fallen as he tore apart the room in his anger. Lucius recognized it as a much larger version of something he himself possessed as a "secret" member of the Wizengamot, the underground government. Voldemort had used his genius to singlehandedly craft each volume for every member of the ruling body – they dutifully revealed legislation for the body to consider, and passed on their votes and comments to Voldemort's master tome, which he then ignored and wrote down the result he wanted; no one was the wiser, and thus the Wizengamot still passed laws while Voldemort shaped Britain into a dictatorship.

Voldemort replaced the book on the wall – one large, ebony bookshelf had remained standing, while the other was sticking out of the opposite wall – and turned back to Lucius, his voice once more soft, with only his usual sibilance. "Barty was my favorite, Lucius. He alone amongst my Death Eaters remained loyal – when _you_ forgot me and turned to your gold to keep you safe." Voldemort's voice held an odd twinge, and right then, Lucius almost believed that he had cared about Barty Crouch as much as he had ever cared about another person.

"He infiltrated Hogwarts, and killed Dumbledore along with Severus. As for Macnair…well, he was a brute, but they too have their uses. Find the one responsible, Lucius. Bring him to me. I will gather the others tonight…they must know about this." Lucius caught Voldemort's glance over his shoulder before his master disappeared without any sign, within the blink of an eye.

Apparation within the manor itself was impossible except at one particular location, and the only thing behind Lucius was a full sized mirror, surrounded by a finely gilded ouroboros.

It was another way his Master had pushed the boundaries of magic, broken laws believed sacrosanct – just as he'd managed true flight, previously thought impossible – and it was Voldemort's own, personal secret that he refused to share even with his Death Eaters. Lucius was almost glad that his Master had kept that secret; for some reason, it seemed dirty, almost, and always left Lucius feeling the need to cleanse himself.

Lucius made his way through the devastated parlor, which involved stepping over a broken vase dating back to Babylon and a fine marble bust of Merlin, he noticed remorsefully, and through two other meeting rooms before coming to the main entrance hall of Voldemort's manor.

While he wasn't quite jealous of his master's mansion – after all, his own was half a millenia old, and had a glorious and bloody history to match the impressive and oft-remodeled décor – Lucius was forced to admit that the entrance hall was most impressive.

The inspiration was gothic, complete with a stained glass window depicting the downfall of Albus Dumbledore with Lord Voldemort standing above him, victorious – and Lucius had always been particularly annoyed that both Bellatrix and Severus had made it into the image, while he himself was absent – above a stairway seemingly held up by mock flying buttresses, carved from obsidian by Voldemort's own magic.

When the Dark Lord descended the stairway the first night after its completion, in full view of his most loyal Death Eaters with explosions lighting the sky outside in celebration of the complete takeover of Britain, it was admittedly one of the more impressive sights Lucius had ever beheld. Bellatrix had been shivering with pleasure at the mere thought of her powerful Lord, then.

Admittedly, she had only recently been freed from Azkaban at the time of the celebration, and to this day never regained _all_ of the limited sanity she'd started with.

Pausing once more to admire the relics in this room – the most impressive and sentimental souvenirs were kept here – Lucius ran a finger along a box carrying the wand of Albus Dumbledore. Across the room he spotted a restored version of the diary he himself had given to the young Weasley girl, before his Master's return. Voldemort had been terribly upset at its destruction, but there it was, looking as new and handsome as ever, with jet-black leather and crisp pages.

The most important part about these particular treasures was that no one besides Voldemort knew the story of each piece – Lucius was the only Death Eater to know why the diary was given a place of honor, but could not fathom why an onyx ring was afforded the same status. He assumed the large stone statue was of Salazar Slytherin, but had no clue where the Dark Lord had found such an amazing piece of art.

Lucius reached a particular point near the front of the house and a tingle went through his spine; he had reached the only point of the manor where the blanket of protections was loosened, and a select few could Apparate to and from.

As he drew his wand, the action stretching the charred flesh that made up most of his left arm to the point of making him wince, he turned on the spot and vanished with a 'pop'.

Lucius reappeared an instant later in the heart of the Ministry's Auror Office; it was another place few were able to Apparate into, but with his son as Head Auror, Lucius had many privileges with the office.

He quickly strode past the crowded cubicles of the Junior Aurors, taking particular care to sneer at Kingsley Shacklebolt, and the much larger desks around each gaggle of junior aurors that belonged to the Senior Aurors.

"Good Morning, Mr. Malfoy," the Nott scion called out cordially. Lucius ignored him and continued to the only office isolated from the rest of the room; he blew past the empty desk where the receptionist usually sat, and stormed into his son's office.

Draco had his head in the azure flames of his fireplace – the Conference Floo Call was a recent modification that had gained great popularity with the Ministry offices, but the powder lent an odd blue color to the flames and was much costlier than traditional Floo powder – and Draco's secretary was dictating the meeting with an enchanted quill while she read the latest _Witch Weekly_.

With a slight clearing of Lucius' throat, she jumped and hissed at him in a whisper, "Mr. Malfoy, I'm sorry but Draco is very busy – you'll have to come back later."

"Get out." Lucius said evenly, motioning to the door with a jerk of head that finally opened up the blackened flesh of his neck and shoulder that he'd been aggravating all day; if Lucius' nerves hadn't been burned off, he would have felt it oozing as it dribbled over the dried burn paste.

The girl hurriedly complied, and Lucius yanked his son's head out of the Floo. Draco's eyes flared with indignation, but it disappeared quickly.

"Father," he drawled, "I'm not certain how you expect me to find out anything about this attack on your life if you end my meetings prematurely like that."

"What have you found?"

Draco had the audacity to roll his eyes at his father before replying in an aggravated tone, "It's only been a few hours! I've put three of my most trusted Aurors on the job, but you can't expect a report after an hour – these things take time!" Draco smoothed his robes before he sat down at his luxurious desk in his plush chair. Lucius sat in the matching guest chair.

"Your best aurors? Is Nott one of them? The idiot – too busy falling over himself to greet me to do any work!" Lucius spat viciously. Draco let out a breath, and when he responded, it was almost as though he was talking to a petulant child.

"Fine, I'll take Theodore off the case. It was him who ruled out the use of Fiendfyre, in case you were curious. The others haven't learned anything more than that."

"Perhaps it is because your entire office is filled with incompetent rejects who couldn't find another job!" Lucius said viciously, standing up with a swirl of his cloak.

"Father," Draco called as Lucius slammed open the door to his office, causing every Auror to peer at the commotion, "Perhaps you should get that shoulder reexamined – it's opened up again." Lucius paused, eyed the blood running down his arm, and nodded jerkily at his son.

He strode briskly to the spot he'd came from, slightly more disheveled than when he'd arrived, and disappeared with a slight 'crack'.

Draco buried his face in his hands and massaged his temple before using his wand to shut the door to his office with a nonverbal charm.

**oooOOOooo**

"Henri! What a surprise to see you here!" Narcissa Malfoy said as she cleaned a hospital bed with a nonverbal _Scourgify_ that sent bubbles careening wildly across the soiled sheets; they disappeared into nothingness once they had accomplished their task.

"Ah, _Madame_, it was only a matter of time before we were assigned a similar task…ze 'ospital is not zat big." Harry said charmingly as he once more hid behind the fictitious façade of Henri Desjardins.

"Of course. I usually volunteer with the children in the Creature-Induced Injury Ward – they make up most of the clientele, since children are much more likely to try to play with dangerous creatures – but it was housed in the satellite office that…well, I'm sure you've heard." Narcissa looked around at the frightfully crowded ward they were currently standing in, the Spell Damage Ward, which was also temporarily housing burn victims and Creature-Induced Injuries. Potion and Plant Poisoning was temporarily housed alongside Accidental Muggle-related Injuries, and the only unit not crowded with at least one other was the contagious disease floor – no one needed THAT complication.

"Indeed," Harry responded darkly, swallowing a lump in his throat. Each time he saw one of the burn victims – innocent bystanders that had been caught up in his private revenge, he tried to shut out the guilt that he felt. So far it hadn't worked. "But I suppose we all must simply soldier on, and 'elp any way we can, _non_? I do not mind ze commotion, if zese poor people get 'elp."

Narcissa smiled at him, and replied, "Of course, Henri, exactly. Much as it may be tiresome for me, as long as the children get the attention they need, I'm happy to help."

They cleaned in silence some, and started restacking standard potions at the bedsides, until Harry broke the silence once more.

"And 'ow is Lucius, my dear? I know 'e went to the satellite unit after ze party last night…'e wasn't injured, was 'e?" Harry noticed a brief flash of anger cross her face.

"A few burns, but he'll be alright. The stubborn man checked himself out of the hospital immediately afterward, and made a terrible scene – yelling about their incompetence and all. I wasn't able to look Healer Davis in the eye this morning, he told her off so bad. As if it was the poor dear's fault – she'd just been called in from the party a few moments ago!" She said waspishly.

Harry wondered if the healer was his old classmate Tracy Davis; she was a Slytherin, so she likely would have been invited to the party, but he believed she was also a half-blood, and would likely have been one of the first Healers recalled.

"Well, I suppose 'e did go zrough a difficult time…" Harry said, placing a comforting arm on Narcissa's shoulder. It was the first time he'd initiated contact with Mrs. Malfoy, and figured it was a good test of how his attempted seduction was coming along.

She placed her hand over his and sighed. "If only, Henri – no, he insisted that some Medi-witch care for him exclusively. She seems to be the only one he wasn't furious at, calling everyone else a fool, screaming about their incompetence, or proclaiming them a traitor…honestly, I've never seen him so out of control. And then that tart of a Medi-witch comes along and puts his arm around her shoulder, helping him to a private suite – which _I_ was barred access from! Can you believe it? His own wife locked out of the room!" Narcissa had grown angrier as she spoke, which drew stares until Harry subtly cast a charm that ensured their privacy.

"I'm sorry, Henri…I suppose it's just too much to deal with right now." Narcissa said, overwhelmed, but shamed at her outburst. Harry moved his hand from Narcissa's nearest shoulder to her other, putting his arm around her.

"My dear…'ow about zat lunch you promised me earlier? I know a _fantastique_ place in Normandy – don't worry, I can take us boz zere, it is not a problem!" With that, Harry ushered Narcissa to France to drown her worries in fine wine and a five-course lunch.

**oooOOOooo**

Harry returned from his lunch with Narcissa – the first of many, he hoped – to find an unusual sight at the _Fidelius_-charmed warehouse he and Grindelwald called home.

Antonin Dolohov, whom Harry had gotten to know quite well and despise from his time as Giacomo the Italian Ambassador, was bound to a chair by seemingly ridiculous neck-to-ankle loops of rope; Harry couldn't see what he was wearing underneath the ropes, but judging by how form-fitting they were, he doubted it could be much – no possible chance of hidden Portkeys or an extra wand. Dolohov's eyes, ears, and mouth were bleeding, his neck one big purple bruise, and both ankles were twisted opposite from what they should have been – he'd obviously been cursed to within an inch of his life.

Standing over him was _another_ Antonin Dolohov, who was casting what Harry recognized as face-altering charms, looking between a mirror and the tied-up Death Eater, and making subtle adjustments.

"Ah, Harry," the standing Dolohov greeted. "I'm glad you're here, I could use some help with these charms. I've never used them to exactly impersonate someone else, so it seems that I've flubbed the details a bit. Oh! And do you perhaps recall that set of curses I mentioned 'Jack the Ripper' using? I've tested five of them on Mr. Dolohov here, so you can take a closer look." Grindelwald's – or rather, a decent imitation of Dolohov's – face was lit up at the inspection of his spellwork by a rather curious Harry, who had dispelled the face of Henri and assumed his own features.

"Eardrums burst – the Thunder curse you mentioned? – and his eyes…they were light blue, in case you hadn't changed yours yet. Merlin knows I spent long enough across the table from the bastard. Is that a blindness curse or blunt impact?" Grindelwald smiled creepily.

"My favorite blinding curse. It's totally reversible, so you can do it over and over. Happens to be one of the more painful ones too, it supposedly feels like your eyes are being boiled." Harry nodded distantly as he inspected Dolohov rather clinically.

"Broken ankles, I remember from the sharp twisting wand motion, it's tricky. And the strangulation itself, of course, which is also repeatable…I believe you mentioned Jack the Ripper would rape the prostitutes as he cast the strangulation curse over and over?" Grindelwald nodded encouragingly, so Harry continued.

"But that's only four different curses – I know Jack's last curse was to slice the neck open…but what's the fifth curse you used?" The ropes around Dolohov's middle loosened slightly, but not enough for him to move much, with a swish of Grindelwald's wand.

"Kidney removal – rips them clean out. Of course the victim would eventually die from the buildup of toxins, but with Jack they never lasted that long. I'm curious to see how long Dolohov will survive…I doubt more than a day or so, but he might prove resilient." With a twisting, tightening motion of Grindelwald's wand the restraining ropes tightened a bit. The old man saw that Harry was a bit green at seeing Dolohov's mutilated gut, so he eyed him carefully.

"Do you not think he's done worse, Harry? I assure you, many of his victims would have begged for such treatment before their own untimely demise." Harry nodded his assent, though he would not look in the prisoner's direction as he fought back nausea, so Grindelwald continued.

"Muggles, of course, thought the mutilation post-mortem – they had no idea the speed with which spells could accomplish what would take them so long, however, so I suppose their conclusion was logical." Harry finished his inspection of Dolohov and was making slight modifications to Grindelwald's face with his well-practiced cosmetic charms – the basic transfiguration was adequate, so Harry could simply nudge it here and there to perfect the disguise.

"Now," Harry began as he finished the proper crook to Grindelwald's nose; Dolohov had obviously had it broken and let it heal without magic. "Why are you going to all this trouble, when Polyjuice Potion is so much easier? It even gives you the same voice, with a little practice…you _know_ what a hassle matching that will be."

"Yes, but this deception is going to be rather more permanent than most of our disguises – I've been thinking about how we need a permanent spy, and I got tired of listening to Dolohov speak at meetings, since Giacomo the _real_ ambassador hasn't shown up in nearly a week. So you decided to fire your assistant Ambassador, and you'll have to be a more regular figure at the Ministry. Besides, if Voldemort suddenly notices me taking a drink from a hip flask every hour, he'd eventually grow suspicious." Grindelwald said, his voice modulating freakishly as he tried to get a similar tone to Dolohov by stretching his vocal cords.

"It's a good thing you think about these things, Gelgrin. I've been so obsessed with ruining Malfoy that I've hardly given a thought to anything else – even Voldemort!" Harry said; Grindelwald smiled at him with a bit of indulgence.

"We haven't got any Polyjuice Potion anyway – I haven't had the time to brew it, and your Potion-brewing skills are probably not up to the task. We do, however, have this Veritaserum from Italy. Dolohov probably won't last a full day without his kidneys if I keep dosing him with it, but I have much to learn about his daily habits, so we must make that sacrifice." Grindelwald retrieved a full flask of the clear potion.

"Now, I need to restore his hearing and finish my voice modification. The Italian Ambassador, however, has to keep an appointment his assistant made. It seems that a certain pureblood wants a fine Italian broom – technically illegal due to the ban, but let's see what he's offering, at least. After all, the British Minister of Foreign Magical Affairs _is_ about to become significantly more agreeable to the Italians' demands…" Grindelwald said, smiling slightly at his captive. "You're to meet him at the Leaky Cauldron about five minutes ago."

Harry knew that Grindelwald neither particularly needed nor wanted him present – and Harry had never developed the stomach for torture, even on a Death Eater as notoriously sadistic as Dolohov.

"Argh!" The captive cried out as his ability to hear was restored. "Who are you? What do you want from me – ugh!" Grindelwald had squirted a dose of the truth serum to Dolohov with a dropper, then closed his mouth.

Harry quickly adjusted his features to the well rounded Italian and Disapparated, leaving Grindelwald alone to his work.

**oooOOOooo**

'_I'm going to kill Gelgrin_,' Harry thought, stone-faced as he sat across from Ron Weasley, who was hurriedly shoveling down a Steak and Ale pie, chips, coleslaw, and his second pint.

Harry was mildly impressed – Ron's eating skills had certainly improved since Hogwarts, and they had not been inconsiderable then.

Harry took a sip of the beer in front of him and eyed his former friend with just a hint of trepidation, a dash of nostalgia, and his usual objective eyes.

Ron had seemingly done well for himself after Hogwarts – as a pureblood in England, one generally had to make an active attempt to fail, after all – with a decent Ministry job and a wife with two children, from Harry's perfunctory background check nearly a year ago. He'd married Lavender Brown, oddly enough – Harry could not recall them ever even greeting each other in passing in the first four years of Hogwarts.

From the bits of idle conversation exchanged over Ron's meal – Harry felt a bit odd asking questions to fulfill a somewhat childish longing to discover how his friend had spent his life – he was able to learn a bit more. Ron's position within the Department of Magical Games and Sports specifically dealt with Quidditch regulations and uniform enforcement across the Leagues.

Harry never knew that the Holyhead Harpies gave the Ministry so much trouble with their constant flouting of the wardrobe regulations, but had a sudden and inexplicable desire to abandon the idea of seducing Narcissa Malfoy in favor of going after the all-female Quidditch team. In its entirety.

"Mr. Weasley," Harry began in Giacomo's flowery lilt, when Ron was finally slowing down. Ron dabbed, then wiped both cheeks with his napkin, and gave the Ambassador a grin. "You called me here about brooms, I believe."

"Er, right!" Ron said excitedly. He looked around to see if anyone had overheard; they had not, since Harry had reflexively taken precautions against such a thing before sitting down. "Italian brooms are way faster, now, with the new models they put out to compete with the _Firebolt_. The _Tempesta_ and the _Scossa_ are principally the ones I'm interested in, of course. I've got a pureblood who wants to outfit his Quidditch team with the best, you know. He figured since I'm in the Games and Sports Department I could help him out and meet with you."

"Of course. I am, however, rather curious how you intend to circumvent the restrictions placed by Mr. Flint – your boss, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports – on using foreign brooms in domestic competition. After all, his reasoning was that if the English National Team still rode your quaint little _Firebolts_, then they were good enough for the entire league." Ron shrugged vacantly as he took a deep swig from his pint and emptied it.

"I dunno, he apparently has some way around it. Look, I'm just supposed to get in touch with you and see if it's theoretically possible for you to get the brooms, Mr. Macillio…" Ron said, uncomfortable with the question and looking around even more blatantly.

"Macilento, Mr. Weasley. Giacomo Macilento – feel free to use either name. And yes, I have enough connections back in Italy to acquire the brooms. My diplomatic status allows me to personally import whatever I like with few questions asked, so getting them here will not be a problem." Ron grinned and handed Harry a folded piece of parchment.

"Great. We can go meet the guy doing the buying, then. Er…he's at a safe location, but he's a bit paranoid about security, since he's had about three houses destroyed in the past six months. It should be alright though, this is one that he goes to in-between real houses where security is pretty restricted. Would you mind, Ambassador, showing me your left forearm, just as a precaution?" Harry perched an eyebrow, admiring his friends' paranoia and concerns about safety – especially when Neville had nearly invited home Bellatrix Lestrange at the last party he'd attended – and pulled back his sleeve, revealing an arm free of the Dark Mark.

Ron let out a breath Harry hadn't known he was holding. "Great! Just read that and we can Floo over." Harry read the tiny scrap of parchment, where an untidy scrawl similar to his own had scribbled, _Sirius' pad is Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London – bring the sexy knickers_. Harry stifled a chuckle, which Ron mistook as an insult from the last part of the note.

"Er, sorry about that," He said, snatching it back. "Sirius usually hands those out to girls – I'm sure your knickers are fine, Ambassador sir." Harry stared at Ron awkwardly for a moment before ignoring his comment.

"I hadn't realized I'd be meeting the infamous Sirius Black. I might have brought a copy of _Witch Weekly_." Harry said, continuing on as though Ron hadn't commented on his knickers.

Ron grinned and said, "He's obsessed with the award, from what I hear. Come on, then, we'll head through Tom's Floo."

"Is there a reason we are not Apparating, Mr. Weasley?" Ron's ears reddened slightly.

"Er, well…that is, I never was much good with Apparating. And if I tried to Side-Along you too…better to Floo, is all." Harry let no sign of it show on Giacomo's face, but he had become more and more disappointed with his childhood friend. He was nearly frustrated with how complacent Ron seemed to be – he had a lackluster job that was fairly meaningless, a wife whose only redeeming factor seemed to be that she was a pureblood, and didn't even know how to properly Apparate. He wondered if he would have come out similarly, if he had stayed at Hogwarts.

Despite his worries, he managed to stay mostly upright after his Floo trip, and caught himself roughly on the mantle so that he didn't tumble out of the fireplace – the loud smack of his meaty palm seemed to alert Ron, who cringed.

"Are you alright there, Mr. Ambassador sir? Bit of a rough landing…" Harry shook off his concern with a quip about holding his liquor poorly – in truth, he'd only had half a pint – that Ron smirked away.

"Now, sorry about the mess, but this is Grimmauld Place." Harry stepped out of the fireplace and into a rather sizable townhouse – it had likely been multiple townhouses at one point, such was its size. The décor was the most unusual that Harry had ever witnessed, and only a schizophrenic could call the glaring styles compatible.

Fine goblin-wrought iron sconces lined the wall, holding flickering orbs of light that appeared to be near the end of their enchanted lives. The chandelier in the main greeting room, which was a part of the entrance hall like most estates with wizard inhabitants, was similarly wrought and themed. The walls, however, were painted in light, bright, or cheerful colors – including the kitchen, which seemed to be a vomit-inducing mixture of bright red and neon yellow. The entrance hall itself was eggshell, which made the dark, polished hardwood planks seem conspicuous.

If Harry hadn't known heard of the history of the Black family – the snootiest of the Purebloods with connections throughout all of Britain – and known how Sirius would have balked at the traditional décor of the estate and attempted to redecorate, he would have been at his wits' end trying to justify the juxtaposed color schemes.

The mess Ron had mentioned was the parlor, to the right of Harry and Ron. The reason for the mess happened to be a young boy of perhaps five, with bright green hair and a massive grin, waving a wand and running past the recently arrived guests.

A woman Harry recognized, and indeed knew all too well, with her slightly tamed but still bushy brown hair and the same look on her face as when she'd been telling him and Ron off a decade ago, stormed past a moment later.

"Teddy Lupin!" She called in an upset, motherly fashion, "Your mother might think you charming the walls green is hilarious and encourage it. Sirius might think you charming ME green is funnier yet. But if you _ever_ go into my workroom and cast spells again, I don't care about your mother, I'll charm your hands right off and you won't be casting spells with _anyone's_ stolen wand. Do I make myself clear, young man?"

Teddy looked down as he bit his lower lip and nodded in agreement. Satisfied, Hermione nodded, turned on her heel, and went back through the house, removing green and blue splotches from the walls as she moved through the rooms with a sigh.

The young boy jabbed his wand at her back one last time, and as she walked past, pausing slightly to nod at Harry while making sure to keep her face downturned – demonstrating the typical deference to Harry's superior status – Hermione's face and hair turned bright blue. Harry managed to suppress a grin as he nodded cordially at her in return.

When she left the room, little Teddy came up to the two visitors and interrogated them.

"I know Ronnie, but who're you?" He asked after a brief high five from Ron.

"My name is Giacomo Macilento. You must be a very special boy, with hair like that. And so talented with a wand, too." The boy grinned widely, revealing a few missing teeth.

"My name's Teddy Lupin. And it's Harry Potter Day, so I get to look like him with bright green hair and black eyes – Uncle Sirius tells me all his stories! Bye!" Teddy zoomed off through the house, and Ron reddened.

"Sorry about that, Ambassador…he's a good kid though, bit rambunctious." Ron called out for Sirius, and they waited, so Harry asked the question that had popped into his mind.

"Have I missed a holiday, Mr. Weasley?" Ron nodded and looked a bit somber.

"No, it's not something you'd know about. A very good friend of ours was declared dead, ten years ago today. Every year a number of us have gotten together for a dinner – you know, to remember him. You've probably heard of him, though. He used to be really famous – Harry Potter? The Boy-who-lived?" Ron said, no doubt feeling strange explaining such a personal loss to a near stranger.

"Ah…perhaps it rings a bell, yes. There was much ado about a boy in the Triwizard Tournament about a decade ago, wasn't there?" Ron's face hardened a bit and he nodded solemnly.

"Yes, of course you'd have heard about that. That was how Harry died." Sirius had emerged from a room finally, so Harry made his last comment to his friend. He was garbed in a finely tailored but fairly plain robe, similar to Harry's guise as Giacomo.

"Well, I heard those Tournaments could be dangerous. Mr. Black, I presume?" Sirius shook Harry's hand excitedly.

"Ambassador Macilento, I've heard so many good things about you. Ron, your sister's on the Floo. I dunno how she heard you were here, but…well, you know how she gets when you consort with the wrong folks." Sirius said with a roll of his eyes. He was much more sedate than when Harry had previously seen him.

"Bugger. By the way, Sirius, Cedric and Fleur and her sister aren't coming tonight, obviously, since they don't know that this place exists. They send their best, though." Sirius nodded, and Ron went into the room from which Sirius had emerged, presumably to stick his head in the fire.

"So I've heard you're interested in my country's brooms, Mr. Black," Harry said, broaching his business – he had never even considered interacting with his former friends like this, and the nostalgia was an unwelcome feeling.

"Right down to business, eh? Well, let's head out of the entry hall at least, Ambassador. Welcome to Grimmauld Place, the Black family townhouse. Much as I try to live elsewhere, and I've gone through about two dozen houses in nine years – I seem to have a string of bad luck. Grimmauld Place is a bit ugly, but it's big and serviceable…I swear it plots against me, though – it seemed so much bigger a few years ago, it's like a wing is missing or something…Oh, excuse me – would you care for some tea? A few biscuits, maybe?" Sirius asked with just the slightest glance at the Italian's portly belly. Harry smiled and accepted the offer.

"A fine family mansion you have here, Mr. Black. I must say, though, the protection on it – yes, I recognized the _Fidelius_ charm – is a bit unusual. In fact, I don't believe I've ever heard of its use to protect a home like this…most would find it rather restrictive, I imagine." Harry commented lightly.

"That's not the only safeguard on the house – my dad, before he died, got pretty paranoid and spent a fortune putting every protection money could buy on this place. These past few months have been the most time I've ever spent here, and I've told a bunch of people the secret just because I've been living here now. A few angry witches haven't burnt it down yet, though, Ambassador – I'm sure I'll be fine." Sirius, of course, could not know how very nearly he had taken a disguised Bellatrix Lestrange home with him at the previous Ministry Ball. Giacomo could not either, since Harry had attended the gala as Henri Desjardins. He smiled at Sirius' reply and changed the subject.

"I am curious though, Mr. Black, since I was led to believe the Ministry restrictions forbid competing on foreign brooms." Harry asked conversationally as Sirius led them to the kitchen. A woman Harry had never met, but from his research assumed was Remus' wife Tonks, was chewing idly on pretzels holding the latest copy of _Transfiguration Today_, while Hermione – who had apparently discovered Teddy's prank and was no longer blue – was pouring over a mess of parchment rolls strewn all over the floor.

"Well, this witch here would be the one to ask about the specifics of it. Ambassador Macilento, this is Hermione Granger." Hermione got up off the floor to greet Harry with a handshake, but the wizard decided to mess with his friend's head just a bit and planted a light kiss on the back of her hand.

"Charmed, madam. I've heard of Mr. Black's legendary charm and taste in witches, but I never expected to see an example of it." Hermione's eyes narrowed for a moment before widening comically in realization of what he was suggesting.

"Wh-I never! I would never! Sirius?" She protested. Harry smiled broadly and looked at Sirius, who was snickering along with Tonks.

"My apologies, then, my dear. Now, Mr. Black was saying how you were responsible for finding some sort of loophole in the Ministry's restriction of brooms?" Hermione had settled herself back down on the floor, after looking disgustedly at Sirius and Tonks.

"Oh yes, the law is rather terribly worded – it basically states that illegally imported brooms cannot be used in play. Seeing as how you as an Ambassador can import Italian brooms legally, those legally imported brooms can be used perfectly well."

Harry was almost surprised – this was careless even by Ministry standards, but nodded and turned to Sirius. "Well then, Mr. Black, I believe we can do business together. Which team's stadium should I send the brooms on to? I can't recall which team it is that your family owned…"

"Oh, my family actually never owned a team – I bought one myself. The Cannons are going to go to the finals, with those new brooms. I can't _wait_ to see the look on Lucius' face when we crush the Magpies!" Sirius said proudly. Harry almost snorted; somehow, he knew Ron's enthusiasm for his favorite team was behind Sirius' purchase.

"The Cannons? Forgive me, Mr. Black, but even if the rest of the league was riding Cleansweep 4's, I don't think the Cannons could make the finals. I'll get you your brooms, but I can't help but feel that they're going to waste." Harry said mockingly. Hermione laughed at this – apparently she had similar feelings.

"Hey! I'll have you know they've been doing loads better since I bought them – they were ranked fifth last season!" Sirius objected.

"Well, miracles do happen. Don't worry Mr. Black, even with these fine new brooms, I'm sure they'll be back at the bottom this season. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I've a terrible amount of paperwork to be done to get them here. It was a pleasure to meet you all. Ms. Tonks, I believe? Your son was delightful – I thought his Harry Potter impression was most accurate. Ms. Granger, Mr. Black." Harry allowed Sirius to lead him to the door.

"Really Ginny, don't pull that shite with me – the only thing in danger is your reputation at those damned parties, and I'll consort with whomever I want! Go move to Egypt with mum and dad and Bill, if you're so worried!" Harry overheard Ron screaming into the Floo. Sirius had a bored look on his face – he'd apparently heard the argument between siblings before.

"Give Mr. Weasley my regards, Mr. Black." Harry said. Nodding farewell to Sirius one more time, Harry turned on his heel and Apparated to the Gamp manor.

He immediately took out a bottle of Firewhiskey and poured himself a generous glass, polished it off. He helped himself to another before sitting in a comfortable chair, staring at a fire.

For the first time, he'd experienced a longing to return to life; to scream, "I'm Harry!"

Just as he knew Sirius and Ron were doing, Harry pulled out a bottle of whiskey as he reverted his own gaunt, haggard features with a few spells. He took a swig and idly wondered, as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the mantle, if his friends would have even recognized him now. After a few more swigs of the whiskey, he realized that it didn't matter.

The world had no place for Harry Potter any more. Only a handful of witches and wizards even remembered his name.

His revenge might go unattributed, but perhaps it was better that way.


	5. Assumptions and Reflections

It's been a long while since I updated, I apologize for that, but I was busy getting a Masters degree and unfortunately didn't make the time. However now I'm back at the drudgery of a job, so here I am. I hope you all enjoy the latest addition.

If you want to read some other great stories, the authors at DLP have started a collective of the "Best of the Best" in a C2: www . fanfiction .net/community/DLP_5_Starred_and_Featured_Authors/84507/

Someday when this story gets nominated for the library there, I hope to join it :)

Without further ado...

EDIT: Thanks to Palindrome and everyone else at the DLP WbA forums for editing work, and to Sophie for being a wonderful sounding board for ideas.

_**Escape to Darkness: Chapter Five**_

_Assumptions and Reflections_

While most Death Eaters knew that the Dark Lord was a man of many vices, few would have believed vanity could be counted amongst them. And yet, standing in front of a mirror for hours on end was not an unusual pastime for Lord Voldemort.

The shadow ruler of Magical Britain had just quaffed yet another disgusting potion – this time a customized version of a skin growth solution – in his latest attempt to alter his appearance. It angered the Dark Lord to no end that he could not appear as a normal wizard – could not hold the seat of Minister of Magic, address the Wizengamot as Chief Warlock, or even rule as Hogwarts' Headmaster and warp the minds of the next generation of wizards and witches. Glamour charms were easily seen through, and could only accomplish so much – a bit of rouge on otherwise pale cheeks was one thing, but a lack of natural hair and a missing nose were beyond the power of cosmetic charms.

The Dark Lord hoped that this latest potion would at least hide the orange flush that came over him when he got frustrated or angry; a consequence of Nagini's yellow venom that ran through his veins, mixed with blood. He cursed his own failures, the only ones he had ever experienced when it came to magic, at restoring the handsome features he was born with.

Critically eyeing his reflection in the mirror once more, he fixed the angle of his fine attire, a crimson lounge robe that added intimidation to his glare, before disappearing suddenly, without warning or the telltale 'pop' of Apparation.

When he reappeared, deep within the heart of the Ministry of Magic, it was directly in front of a stately mahogany table, around which sat his Death Eaters. The fireplace behind him crackled comfortably, casting a warm glow around the room – the green flames had returned to their normal hue minutes ago, when the last guest arrived – which was lost upon the assembled Death Eaters as Voldemort pierced them with a chilling stare.

He took his seat at the head of the table, and the Death Eaters all sat down; it had only taken a few _Cruciatus_ curses to teach them that even after their victory, they never sat before their master did.

To his left were the Death Eaters who worked at the Ministry and Hogwarts, those who were the most socially acceptable of his subjects. Lucius was seated next to his lord at a place of honor; the burns of the morning had been healed, and now the pink skin that stood out harshly from his usual pale countenance was the only reminder of his accident. Yaxley and Avery sat beyond him, with an open seat for the late Barty Crouch between Avery and a somber-as-usual-looking Dolohov. Further down the table, Voldemort's faithful sat in a pecking order, with Severus at the far end, next to Karkaroff.

Those two had been the least faithful; they had paid for their disloyalty, their lack of faith, with the merest of appointments. Voldemort had come very close to killing Karkaroff for his loose tongue, but had reconsidered after cutting out the treacherous organ. While Severus had responded well to all questions and tests of his loyalty, Voldemort had nonetheless delegated him to lowest position within the Death Eaters, and he had only spared his life because of Severus' valuable skill as a potioneer.

Seated to Voldemort's right were the remaining Death Eaters. They did not often reveal themselves to polite society. Dear Bellatrix, who hung on the Dark Lord's every word, staring up hungrily at him; no doubt she was concerned about the need for a full meeting, when there hadn't been one in years. Her husband Rodolphus and his brother were beside her, and further down was a line of seedy and criminal characters. Some of them had been given jobs in the Ministry despite their ghastly appearance – Avery still got complaints that someone with his entire lower jaw a permanent bleeding sore was a top Obliviator – but retained their seat at the right side of Voldemort. Most of these Death Eaters still went out hunting Muggles, and sometimes Mudbloods, for sport, whereas many of the "more civilized" looked down on it, now that they were the ones responsible for covering up such behavior.

"Something unspeakable has happened," Voldemort said in a whisper. His words were clearly understood, and each person there felt as though the Dark Lord was talking intimately to them. Bellatrix shuddered at the feel of it.

"Someone has been preying on your fellows." A few sharp intakes of breath were heard, and perhaps half of the Death Eaters shot questioning looks at their comrades. The rest had heard the announcement and taken it in stride.

"As you can see," Voldemort continued, sweeping his hand to the left side of the table, "Walden Macnair and Barty Crouch were unable to join us tonight." He positioned both his hands on the table and slightly leant over the edge. "They were murdered."

"Who would dare, my Lord?" Rodolphus Lestrange cried, outraged. Several indistinct murmurs seemed to agree; it was unthinkable that anyone would have the audacity to think they could target Death Eaters.

"Could it be the Order of the Phoenix?" Yaxley asked, wearing a thoughtful expression. Nott, further down Yaxley's side of the table, harrumphed loudly and sneered at the Minister of Magic.

"Bollocks, Yaxley! Despite the fact that wanton destruction has been attributed to the Order for a decade, it doesn't mean that they've ever actually _done_ anything. You should know – most of the cock and bull stories were fabricated by your office!" Nott, like Lucius, relied on his own personal fortune instead of a Ministry position as a basis for power; it had caused some friction with those like Yaxley in the past.

"That doesn't mean they are incapable of it, Nott! We have no real knowledge of their strength or disposition any more, so who knows what they could be plotting?" Yaxley said defensively.

"Quiet," Voldemort ordered in a level tone; the commotion caused by the argument stopped immediately.

"Severus," the Dark Lord continued, "You used to be rather…familiar with the Order, weren't you? Give us your opinion." Snape was unused to being called upon in meetings. He had never regained his Lord's favor, since the possibility of his treason had led to a lack of trust.

"When last I knew about the Order, Dumbledore was attempting to gather and organize its members. He never got much past that state before he died, my Lord. If you recall, we had just swept the Ministry elections, blaming bouts of terrorism on the Order, and Dumbledore only lived long enough to see his name sullied and the removal from his many offices finalized," Snape said, standing briefly, then reseating himself, seemingly anxious to return to his usual anonymity.

"But there was always a bit of suspicion around his death, wasn't there, Severus? What if it was a lie? Could it be him, murdering my most loyal?" Voldemort asked. Many of the Death Eaters held their breath – while there had always been rumors of Dumbledore's survival, hearing them from the Dark Lord gave them credence, and the possibility of the formidable wizard applying himself to their deaths was a frightening prospect.

"No, my Lord," Snape replied after only a moment's hesitation. The room seemed to relax slightly, and think of other options, while he continued, "Dumbledore would never stomach murder, or even lethal force during a duel. He was too much of a sentimental old fool."

"Indeed, Severus. I came to a similar conclusion myself." The Dark Lord found that subtle comments like that helped fuel the aura of invincibility and omniscience he had cultivated from his followers. As much as he hated it, his position of power was mostly reliant on them, so the more untouchable he seemed, the better.

"My Lord," Lucius said, rising from his seat. "I have obviously given this much thought, since my own life was nearly claimed in the same attack that killed Macnair. One more detail I discovered makes this scenario even more chilling and likely – the Dark Mark was cast over Barty Crouch's body." No one quite knew what to think of this development. Doubting glares were cast at rivals, and though no one would dare to level an accusation, Lord Voldemort could see the suspicions as he met the eyes of some of his Death Eaters.

"Do you think a traitor could hide in my presence, Lucius? I am certain of your loyalty. Besides, no one here would gain much from the death of his fellows." Lucius nodded at Voldemort's comment, but continued.

"Of course not, my Lord. But just as there was doubt about Dumbledore's death, there were mysterious circumstances surrounding the deaths of two Death Eaters. The bodies of Regulus Black and Evan Rosier were never found." Whispers erupted, and the thoughts of the assembled went wild as memories of the fallen comrades came to the surface. After Voldemort had taken in the information he sieved from their minds, he called order.

"Regulus Black is dead. He died a traitor's death by my own hand." This shocked many of the Death Eaters, who only knew that the boy had disappeared soon after he graduated Hogwarts, and he had been presumed dead for two decades.

"If I recall, my Lord, Rosier was rumored to have been given to the tender mercies of Alastor Moody. What if Mad-Eye never got revenge for his leg and Rosier somehow escaped?" Lucius questioned, obviously having given this story some thought. It was farfetched, perhaps, but better than anything Voldemort had been able to come up with.

"I think what Lucius said makes sense," Dolohov declared suddenly. Voldemort was somewhat surprised at this, since the Russian usually stayed silent; his eyes, still dulled from his long stint in Azkaban, were kept downward, so Voldemort could not glean his thoughts.

"Who else would know how to cast the Dark Mark but one of us? But did Rosier even know Crouch?" Dolohov's words had incited memories in the minds of the assembled Death Eaters, and when Voldemort learned on them, they painted a troubling picture.

Rowle at the far end of the table was a contemporary of Crouch, and he remembered how Rosier had relentlessly ridiculed Barty and cursed him during their time at Hogwarts. The antagonism had never stopped when they joined the Death Eaters, and Barty was always seen as incompetent by the more experienced wizard.

Rabastan Lestrange recalled a mission with Macnair and Rosier. The two had been trying to destroy a Muggle bridge but almost botched it when Rosier cursed Macnair unconscious; Rabastan and Rosier had done fine on their own, but if Macnair had tried to kill a passing Muggle just a few minutes later, it could have been disastrous.

Stephen Avery Jr. had been close friends with Rosier, and he too had always despised Crouch for his place of honor at Voldemort's table; even before the Dark Lord's fall, Crouch had been enjoying Lord Voldemort's favor since his father had such a powerful place in the Ministry.

Voldemort's own reflections upon Rosier revealed an uncomfortable truth – he had always been intensely jealous, even of other Death Eaters. If he _had_ somehow survived, and come back to see them flaunt their impressive status within society…

Voldemort found his own lip curling slightly in disgust when he realized that Evan Rosier seemed to have the opportunity, motive, and talent to murder his former compatriots. If he was actually alive.

"Silence!" He said furiously, settling the room. "It seems that our best guess as to the murderer's identity is Evan Rosier. Each of you has three days to find out whatever you can about Rosier – I want every possibility researched. If he is alive, I want proof, and I want him found. Do not fail me."

The Death Eaters knew a dismissal when they heard one, and most of them got to their feet, leaving their Lord sitting at the table, deep in thought.

"Excuse me, my Lord, but might I have a moment of your time?" Severus asked hesitantly. The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes as Severus boldly met his gaze. Like always, the man's mind was a total blank; the only other Death Eaters with such empty heads were Crabbe and Goyle, though the explanation for that had less to do with subterfuge.

"I was wondering who you thought might be the best candidate for Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts – it is such an important position, and one I am both qualified for and desire. I think that if you mentioned it to Amycus, he might consider –"

"Shut up, Severus," Voldemort spat caustically. Even after a decade, the possibility of treason did not sit well with him. "Everyone knows you've been lusting for that position for ages – perhaps enough to kill for it yourself? Amycus as Headmaster is well qualified to pick Barty's replacement. I always thought dear Bella might like to entertain the children, for instance. Do not try to beg for favors again, Severus, or I may be forced to remind you of the price of failure…I have not had to curse my Death Eaters for incompetence in many years, but do not think me reticent to do so." Severus nodded in acquiescence, then smoothly turned and departed, Voldemort staring at his back as he left.

Finally alone in the room, Voldemort glanced at the gilded mirror hanging behind him before departing to his manor in an instant, leaving only the ashes of the fire to slowly smolder.

**oooOOOooo**

"Ambassador Macilento, sir!" A young man called out in vigorous greeting. In Britain, Harry would have thought him gay in an instant; no straight men in England had the perfect tan, white teeth, manicured fingers, and beach–worthy build that the boy sported – much less his tight shirt with slightly puffy sleeves and pants that were only a few sizes too small. The time he'd spent in Italy immediately after his escape from Nurmengard, however, had taught him otherwise. "A pleasure to have you back in Portoferraio." His escort, probably fresh out of school, continued.

Harry hadn't spoken Italian in months, and it took him a moment to realize what he had heard.

"Thank you," he responded smoothly in the foreign tongue, adopting the Genoan accent he learned from Grindelwald, "I have not returned in some while. I thought it time to report back to the _Ministro_. The fact that it is prime vacation season, and English weather is as terrible as you have heard…well, I suppose that's just a perk of my position." The assistant smiled a polite smile and nodded.

"Yes, sir. The Ministry has arranged a room for you, of course, but unfortunately on such short notice, it might be some time before you get a chance to meet with the _Ministro_…I hope that isn't a problem?" Indeed, as Harry looked around the Ministry Portkey Arrival Platform, which was a somewhat isolated corner of the spacious Atrium; it was ornately walled by glass, with plants growing everywhere except for the walkways and the water fountains – and yet Harry noticed that it was uncommonly empty. Not surprising, since the Italians tended to vacation frequently.

"Of course Mr…?" The assistant flushed in embarrassment.

"Silvio! I'm so sorry, Ambassador sir, I forgot to tell you my name. I am Silvio, and you may call on me for any of your needs for your stay here. I'm here to make sure our Ambassadors want for nothing when they return home."

"Quite," Harry responded simply. He glanced at Silvio, who stared somewhat dumbly at him in response.

"Might we get started going to my room, Silvio?" The boy's eyes widened and he nodded.

"Oh, absolutely sir! You'll be staying in the top room of the _Torre Strega_, it's –"

"– Not far from the Ministry, and is the among the finest magical accommodations found in the Mediterranean. It has not been _that_ long since I've been here, Silvio; I do believe the _Strega_ is nearly a thousand years old." Silvio had the graciousness to act chastised at the portly Ambassador's sarcastic tone.

"Of course, sir. Will you be Apparating, or should we take brooms?" The young man's question brought to mind one of Grindelwald's lessons, a year prior, just as Harry had begun his charade as Giacomo Macilento.

"_Now remember, Harry," the tan stranger, Grindelwald in disguise, whispered harshly as he led Harry through the impressive Italian Atrium to meet with a wizard in charge of Foreign Affairs._

"_It is not enough," he continued, "to merely have a different identity or persona – everything about you must change. Your skillset, talents, mannerisms – you must leave no indication of who you are! If one identity is proficient with a wand, have another be nearly a Squib. If you're good on a broom, then have a fear of heights, for Merlin's sake!"_

"Well, Silvio, I'm afraid I never took very well either to flying or Apparation. Why don't we just take a walk? I do miss the sights of the city, after all." Silvio smiled indulgently and led them to the exit. Any Muggles walking by would have believed them to be emerging from a spa and sauna house; this had the added benefit of excusing the odd wizard who wandered out in a robe.

Portoferraio was the largest city on the isle of Elba; it was the closest thing to a purely wizard-inhabited island that existed in Europe, though Canada was rumored to have something similar. Elba was home to Italy's finest magical school – the _Primo Scuola di Fascina_ – the Italian Ministry of Magic, over two thousand wizards and witches, and thousands more who either attended the school or worked in the Ministry. Ironically, the central hub of magical Italy was not the territory of Italy for many years, when the French had control of Elba – that was a time when many Muggles were Obliviated daily to uphold the Statute of Secrecy.

Unlike the British Diagon Alley, which was slightly more practical, in Harry's opinion, each magical shop in Portoferraio was open to the street, isolated from the Muggles only by individual charms.

There were still wizards in robes wandering the streets, unprotected by the Muggle–Repelling charms, but this meant that the island had gained a quirky reputation amongst Italians. Tourists were likely to excuse behavior otherwise mandating a Memory charm.

As Harry and Silvio made their way through the narrow street, which was almost entirely populated by pedestrians enjoying the coastal weather and the slow pace of island life, Harry was reminded strongly of walking down the same street, one year before.

_Harry saw the emerald-robed Magical Law Enforcement Squad member and flinched away before they could meet eyes. He kept his gaze firmly downward and closed his eyes for a moment before continuing down the street. For the first time since his escape from prison, Harry was alone – Grindelwald was in Germany, meeting with old contacts and spinning a new web of connections – and it was terribly unnerving. The sycamore wand, crafted in France and gotten for him by one of Grindelwald's contacts on the second day of their freedom, was poorly suited for him – he felt naked without a good wand. _

_The sycamore wand was entirely too swishy and supple – perhaps good for Charms work, but he had greatly increased his skill with Transfiguration in prison, and was certain he would have a stronger affinity for that kind of wand. Or a wand more like his old Holly wand, which was surely destroyed by now. Or perhaps on the mantle of Lucius –_

_His thoughts were interrupted as he plowed right into the back of someone. He was so lost in contemplation about his wand that he was spooked by the sudden contact and ended up on his butt in the middle of the street. Several people eyed him oddly, and a few others eyed the slim girl he'd crashed into, who'd managed to stay on her feet perfectly fine._

_Harry looked up at her from his spot on the street – she was, perhaps inevitably, a classic beauty. Warm olive skin, dark brown eyes and lovely black hair, styled just right to frame her face in a way that made her smile dazzling. She was smiling now, down at him, as she offered him a hand up._

"_Are you alright? I know I'm kind of a rock, when you slam into me…" She grinned again as Harry nodded that he was fine._

"_Thank you, miss, sorry for that, I wasn't paying attention." Harry said. Her eyes raised questioningly as he spoke in flawless Italian, his accent southern, perhaps Sicilian._

"_Not at all. Your Italian is very good – I expected to hear French or German, with your pale skin." Harry flushed as he tried to make up a story. Grindelwald had always told him to have a believable story ready, but he hadn't had the chance to make one up yet, since he'd only been out of prison for a little over a week._

"_Er, my family used to vacation a lot in southern Italy, when I was a kid. I guess between Italian lessons and spending my summers there, my accent got better." Harry said with a shrug._

"_Oh really? My family always went to a place near Bari – small town with quite a few wizards, San Giorgio? It's a pretty popular place for vacations, I think." Harry had heard of it before, from some of Grindelwald's many stories on the war._

"_Yes, I've heard of it. Most of the town burnt down in the war, right? I seem to recall something about Merpeople coming to the rescue of some of the citizens who jumped in the Adriatic." The girl nodded enthusiastically._

"_Yes! There's a big memorial there, gorgeous statue with Merpeople on it, I think they helped craft it, actually…Oh! Sorry, I'm so rude! My name is Daniela Moretti." She said, offering her hand, which Harry took with a smile._

"_My name's Harry. It's a pleasure to meet you, Daniela." Even as he said it, he knew it was a mistake _–_ Grindelwald had told him time and again that he should never, NEVER use his real name. And yet, Daniela seemed harmless enough, and Harry hadn't used his last name, after all _– _perhaps it didn't really matter in cases like this._

"_So how about you tell me about your vacations to Italy over lunch, Harry?" Daniela said with a wink. After a decade of solitary confinement in Nurmengard prison, lunch with Daniela was about the most perfect thing Harry could think of._

"Thank you for carrying the bags, Silvio," Harry said to Silvio as they arrived at his room in the _Torre Strega_. The hotel, too, brought back memories both pleasant and unpleasant. For a few months after their escape from Nurmengard, Grindelwald had been waltzing around most of Europe, contacting many of his 'old friends'. He had dropped Harry off in Italy, and instructed him not to get into trouble. Initially Harry had stayed at a cheap Muggle hostel – he moved out of it once he was forcibly introduced to wizarding Italy by a girl named Daniela.

After that, Harry had stayed at the _Torre Strega_, in a vain attempt to impress her, until Grindelwald returned and they moved into a villa that a muggle realtor had been trying to sell. The realtor was understandably frustrated when the house disappeared one day, thanks to Grindelwald's _Fidelius_ Charm; he drove by at least once a day, attempting to find the missing house.

"As I mentioned, the _Ministro _was unprepared for this sudden visit – I believe the first appointment he has available isn't until two days from now, unfortunately. Is there anything I can do for you before then?" Silvio said somewhat nervously, with a flash of his brilliant white teeth.

"I have several other previous appointments to occupy me until then, Silvio, thank you. I'm sure I'll be in and out of the Ministry over the next few days, so perhaps I will see you around." Silvio bowed to Harry before opening the door.

"If you need anything, I left my Floo address on a card on your bag. Please don't hesitate, Ambassador, it was a pleasure to serve." Perhaps Harry had been wrong about the boy's sexual orientation after all – Italian women were perhaps not the only ones attracted to slightly pudgy men of power.

**oooOOOooo**

"Ambassador, it is good to see you again! Still afraid of flying?" The head of the Ferrari broom division was a bit older than Harry's persona of the British Ambassador appeared to be, but was in excellent shape, with a toned body that likely came from years of riding his own products. He had aged well, in a way that most men dream to – skin tanned to a healthy bronze, with wings of white touching his dark, full head of hair around the temples. His beard had slightly more grey in it, but was shaved to a short goatee that was quite flattering to his features.

With his obvious wealth and looks, Harry knew that tailwinds on his broom weren't the only kind of tail that Giovanni Ferrari caught.

"Ah, Giovanni, my friend!" Harry said, shaking the man's hand with both of his own in a reserved but warm manner. "I have heard such wonderful things about your new line of brooms; I was in town, so I had to see for myself!"

"Giacomo, I swear you are a puzzling man – you can't even hover on a broom, yet you love to watch the races. At least you have some taste in you, eh?" Giovanni laughed and clapped Harry on the shoulder, Harry grinned in response.

"Now, which brooms did you want to see? The _Tempesta_ and the _Scossa_, no doubt, everyone loves them. On a Quidditch team, of course, the Chasers and the Seeker will fly on a _Tempesta_, and the Keeper and Beaters ride a _Scossa._ It's a difference of forward speed versus lateral maneuverability – the _Scossa_ is still fast, of course, but it's a bigger broom, more stable, as well. We have a pitch here, I'll bring out a few employees to play on teams and demonstrate – and I'm sure you aren't just here to visit, so we can talk business up in the suite; I'll have lunch brought up." Giovanni said.

The Ferrari Stadium, which was built to house the most recent Quidditch World Cup, held in Italy, was incredibly impressive – a professional stadium, even grander and more splendid than the one Harry had attended before his imprisonment. The view from the suite was exquisite, the manicured turf hundreds of feet below him and the golden hoops sparkling in the Italian sun were quite the view.

"Quite the view, isn't it?" Giovanni said, as he saw Harry taking in the stadium.

"It certainly is. I've visited the stadium, before I was appointed the British Ambassador, but I've never had the privilege of seeing a game here. Though, as you mentioned, I don't fly myself, I enjoy watching the occasional Quidditch match, even if I don't always know exactly what's going on." Harry said with slight self aggrandizement. Giovanni smiled, and nodded to the gourmet lunch that had appeared; fresh salads to start, no doubt followed by some pasta. Harry never could fault the Italians for their food, that was certain.

"Someone in Britain wants your brooms, Mr. Ferrari." He stated after several bites of salad and a drink of water. "He believes he has found a loophole where his Quidditch team can play on them, giving them an edge in the upcoming season. Everyone else still plays on Firebolts, in the British league."

"Ha! Brooms a decade old, in professional play? I admit, they had their day, but…brooms have come a long way since then, I think." Ferrari said with a smile; Harry nodded with agreement and the two continued to eat, with only a bit of small talk interrupting their meal. This was common in his negotiation meals as Giacomo, it was how the Italian persona operated – let them know what you wanted, eat and be casual, then get to haggling once you'd enjoyed the fine meal. Harry had made sure that the technique was both rather effective and far different from the tactics employed by his French persona, Henri Desjardins.

"Now, Giacomo, the details of the deal, if you please." Ferrari said as the two men casually ate a strawberry desert. Harry broke his attention away from the two opposing teams of flying employees and their pick–up game, and smiled at the broommaker.

"An even dozen brooms – enough to outfit a Quidditch team properly with four _Tempesta_s and three _Scossa_s, as well as spare brooms. In case accidents happen, of course." Ferrari smiled broadly; lunch and a private Quidditch match were negligible expenses in the face of such a purchase.

"Only one request – instead of Candy Apple Red like most of your brooms, this team was thinking…orange." Ferrari's brow furrowed in only half–mocking disgust.

"Orange? I mean…the Muggles use it occasionally, but…ugh, those English…"

"I know," Harry replied with a smile as he leaned back in his chair, pleased with the successful deal. "Not everyone had the grace to be born Italian, though."

**oooOOOooo**

"England is much the same, then? Purebloods ruling with absolute power, possibly with a Dark wizard in shadow command of their government?" _Ministro_ Moretti, the leader of the Italian _Ministero della Magia_, did not look up from his desk as he spoke to his British Ambassador. He was going over a speech on his desk, marking off or underlining words with a quill, and his least favorite Ambassador was not worth his attention.

"Yes, _Ministro_, nothing has changed in that aspect. I have my suspicions about the dark wizard, as I have written in my reports, but have not received any kind of verification. They would not easily talk to an outsider, especially one like myself with obvious ties to my homeland." Harry said in the smooth Italian baritone of Giacomo Macilento.

"I have heard Daniela was promoted to Senior Undersecretary, _Ministro_. Congratulations, that is a fine appointment for one so young – she has a bright future ahead of her, as I've always known." At this comment, the _Ministro_ did look up, narrowing his gaze at Harry.

"Yes, I am quite proud of my daughter. Without the distraction of certain Ambassadors lingering around the _Ministero_ offices, I hope that she will once again find a nice _young_ boy to settle down and be happy with. Good day, Ambassador. Don't forget your umbrella, I hear London's weather is just awful this time of year." Giacomo's weathered face crinkled with a smile as he bowed before the _Ministro_ before leaving.

As Harry ambled along the convoluted hallways of the _Ministero_ toward the streets of Portoferraio, his mind was drawn back to his time spent on the island – the memories were not all pleasant.

"_Good night, Daniela." Harry said after exchanged a fiery kiss with the woman. As they broke away, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in for another._

"_Good night, Harry. I love you." Harry beamed a smile at her like he always did when she said that. He had never had anyone in love with him before, and the feelings that swelled inside him at the idea of it threatened to burst through his chest. After so many years alone in a prison cell, reestablishing his emotions was, in his own opinion, an excellent sign that he was recovering. He'd even had a few admittedly traitorous thoughts about abandoning his plans for revenge and just settling down here with the beautiful Daniela._

"_I love you too. So much." He said with a brief brush of his lips on hers once more. It was young love between the two of them, and Harry couldn't remember a time where he was happier, or more content with his life._

_He closed the door after her and nearly jumped as he turned around and saw the familiar face of Grindelwald, whose frown indicated very clearly what he thought of the scene he'd just observed._

"_Gelgrin," Harry greeted cautiously, closely watching Grindelwald's face – it showed disapproval, to be sure, but nothing more._

"_It seems, Harry," the infamous Dark wizard started. "That not only have you forgotten – or ignored – everything I've ever told you about Operational Security, but also that you've wasted the time you were supposed to spend familiarizing yourself with the island and the Italian Ministry."_

_Grindelwald folded his arms across his wiry chest as he scolded Harry._

"_I wouldn't say that it was entirely wasted." Harry defended as he went to the charmed icebox and withdrew two bottles of beer; he knew Grindelwald's favorite German brewery, and had always made sure to keep a few bottles of it ready for when he returned. "Daniela's father is the _Ministro_, I've heard a lot about him – I've been sure to keep my distance though, as obviously an investigation from him would…bring up some questions. And I've also gone all over the island with Daniela; I think I've gotten to know it fairly well."_

_Grindelwald accepted the beer with a nod and took a sip as he seemed to consider this._

"_Of course the island was not _all_ you explored with dear Daniela, I'm sure." He said with a sharp smirk; Harry couldn't help but grin and shrug slightly. "But I suppose that being locked up since the age of fourteen gave you little time to indulge those desires, and such things are only natural, after all." He paused for a moment, then took out a large manila folder. He poured out the contents on the kitchen island._

"_Giacomo Macilento," he said, sliding over a fuzzy picture. "A new identity, complete with school records – and vivid memories implanted in several classmates – recommendations, an impressive if unremarkable curriculum vitae, and even a Muggle passport; Giacomo traveled for a time, you see, and got it on a lark before his trip. You graduated from the _Primo Scuola di Fascina_ with a few N.E.W.T.s; no Transfiguration and only passable Charms, but you excelled at History and Arithmancy, and even earned one in Divination. Your other classes were taken to the O.W.L. level, and you earned A's. Unremarkable spellcaster, but then that's why you're interested in a Ministry desk job. As I said before, you have a history of travel, so be sure to be ready to field questions about that. You have an interview at the Ministry Department of International Magical Cooperation at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. Wear something…gray, perhaps, and pinstriped, I hear that's professional looking these days."_

"_You _have _been busy these past few months." Harry said, impressed with how Grindelwald was able to craft this new identity – and probably several others at the same time, if Harry knew him._

"_I even had to break into the _Scuola di Fascina _to add Giacomo to their records. And Beauxbatons, as well – he spent a semester abroad, they were running a program at the time. Of course, I took a few liberties with Beauxbatons while I was there, but I'll introduce you to Henri a bit later, let's focus on Giacomo for now. Get to the bathroom, you'll need at least two mirrors to get the charms right, the first few times."_

_Harry nodded, grabbed the holly and dragon heart–string wand he'd bought while on Elba, and headed toward the bathroom._

"_Oh, and Harry?" Grindelwald called, almost as an afterthought. "I'll draft the letter for you to owl, telling dear Daniela that you're leaving for the Ukraine, and that return owls probably won't reach you."_

_Harry forced down the lump in his throat and nodded – this was the inevitable conclusion to the relationship. He had known it could not last, and yet had been enjoying it despite himself, hoping against hope that perhaps she'd never need to know his last name, that the questions he couldn't answer, she'd never pose._

"_But if she _is _the Ministro's daughter…well, perhaps she'll have a role to play in our plans, after all." Harry just stared at the bathroom mirror, trying to control his emotions. For all the rage that he felt at the thought of it, he knew Grindelwald was right. Daniela could be used. And he knew exactly which buttons to push on the girl he'd spent the past two months with._

"Ambassador Macilento?" Harry closed his eyes with a sudden feeling of dread as he heard the musical and familiar voice.

"I _knew_ there was a reason Father told me not to come to the _Ministero_ offices today! How's jolly old England treating an esteemed Ambassador from Italy these days?" Daniela asked as she sensually hugged the _much_ older man.

Even amongst wizards, where such things were more acceptable, the relationship Harry had cultivated – ironically, after ending another relationship with the same girl – had been a sordid affair, the talk of the Ministry; until Daniela's father had found out. Whispered rumors, partially from Grindelwald's former supporters and from his own assumed persona, had suggested that banishing the promising Ambassador to England with a promotion would be the best punishment for debasing his daughter. Giacomo was, after all, supposedly only seven years younger than the _Ministro_ himself. It had been truly scandalous.

"I cannot complain, my dear." Harry's lips lingered on Daniela's hand in greeting just a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

"Well luckily I get a bit longer of a debriefing than _that_ sorry excuse, Ambassador. I have a table at _Fiore Cremisi_ this evening; it happens to be for two, and I happen to need a second person – otherwise I risk looking quite the fool, showing up alone. What kind of girl can't even find a date, after all?" She said, her eyes twinkling with mirth. Her sarcastic wit was something Harry had loved about her – both when he'd been himself and when he'd been Giacomo.

"And you somehow found out that I was going to be back in Italy, and free this night? And probably knew a week ago, if the _Fiore_ is as difficult to get a table at as I recall. Clever girl." Harry complimented. Daniela kissed his cheek softly.

"I have a meeting to go attend now, meet me at my condo around eight? And wear a fedora, you know how I like you in those." She winked at him, and Giacomo smiled broadly. Naturally, they'd attracted the attention of every ministry worker on the floor; the rumor mills would be spinning once again.

As he left the building – in search of a fedora, as well as a pair of dress robes for the unexpected tryst – Harry reflected that Giacomo had likely secured another five years as Ambassador to England.

**oooOOOooo**

It was just four days later that Giacomo arrived at the Chudley Cannons practice pitch via official Ministry portkey, a large bundle of brooms cradled awkwardly. He tipped precariously, until two someones grabbed the brooms from his hands.

Hermione Granger wore a hassled look, with typically frazzled hair and robes that looked rather afright – Harry had only seen her as frazzled when studying for an exam. She grabbed the brooms and set them down on the floor.

Sirius Black, however, looked predictably immaculate. He was the very image of wizard in his gaudy silver robe, complete with matching – in a slightly darker tone of silver – under vest and bowtie. Once the brooms were assured not going to fall in Hermione's care, he let the younger witch deal with them and grinned broadly at the Italian Ambassador, shaking his hand vigorously.

"Ambassador! Splendid of you to deliver the brooms yourself, just _splendid_. They look marvelous too…the orange color isn't _quite_ exactly the same as the uniforms, but…well, we can get the uniforms changed easily enough, at any rate – been meaning to update them again this year anyway!" Sirius said as he looked at the brooms with a discerning eye for color palettes that Harry didn't know he possessed.

The seven members of the Chudley Cannons filed in at that moment; Harry imagined they'd been instructed to allow him to be greeted first by Sirius, then enter to pick up their brooms. Unlike the incredibly gaudy solid orange robes they'd worn in the past, they were now mostly decked in black dragonhide protective gear, with only slashes of their former orange showing; it was rather tasteful, for orange. When Sirius mentioned it, Harry indeed noticed that the brooms were a darker, more reddish color than the bright orange of the Cannons'. Harry didn't doubt this was intentional on the part of Ferrari Brooms.

"Take your pick, boys! This is Ambassador Macilento from Italy – he's the reason we were able to get the brooms." Sirius magnanimously introduced each of his players to the foreign dignitary.

"And Ambassador Macilento," Sirius said, his eyes lighting up when he ushered the seventh team member forward. "Allow me to introduce you to the finest young seeker in the world, Ms. Ashley Jones. You've probably heard of her cousin, who captains the Harpies. God, those negotiations were amazing, you should have _seen_ Gwenog when she found out I stole little Ash here from her." Sirius leaned forward conspiratorially and continued in a whisper, "She was so desperate for me to reconsider that…well, let's say any more of those _negotiation_ attempts and Holyhead would need to find a new beater too, because Gwenog nearly couldn't ride a broomstick the next morning as it was!"

Ashley socked the pureblood in the arm for this comment, and he circled her in a one–armed hug and tousled her hair. "Couldn't ride her broomstick because I refused so vigorously, of course!" He finished with a wink at his player.

The girl certainly had the right build for a seeker, Harry reflected, very petite, only an inch over five feet, he estimated – she was no doubt a hellion of a trick rider. Harry also would have bet galleons that the girl wasn't even out of Hogwarts yet. She was cute, in an athletic, girl-next-door way; she reminded Harry strongly of Katie Bell, who he played Quidditch with in his own days at Hogwarts.

"A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jones. I'll look forward to your performance in the air. Especially against Holyhead." Harry commented with a small smile. The girl lit up animatedly at mention of this.

"Psh, Gwenog throws as many Bludgers as she can at me, but I just barrel–roll right around 'em – and our own Beaters help quite a bit with that too, I 'spect." The players left with their brooms, no doubt to give them a test–run, possibly in a practice, leaving Giacomo alone with Hermione and Sirius.

"That girl's going to win England the Quidditch World Cup, she is. If you think she plays fiercely _against_ her cousin, well…on the same team, they're an even _better_ pair. I swear, in the English National tryouts, I've never seen so many opposing Seekers interrupted by Bludgers, it was incredible. Anyway, I've heard you never played Quidditch, so I'll shut up. Thank you again for the brooms – I take it the Goblins got you your payment?" Sirius said, turning to inspect his team's practice.

"Indeed, Lord Black. Eleven brooms, paid for and delivered." Harry said, leaving out the twelfth broom he'd kept for himself – not even Grindelwald knew about that, yet. "It was a pleasure doing business with you."

"Should you find any more loopholes I can help you exploit, Ms. Granger, feel free to owl me – I check my office daily. Lord Black, Ms. Granger." Giacomo said, bowing to Sirius deferentially and kissing the back of Hermione's hand. She pinked slightly as he did so, and nodded.

"Yes, Ambassador. I think we made…quite an excellent team. I look forward to seeing you again in the future." Hermione said.

Harry activated his return portkey back to the Ambassador's office at the Ministry, leaving his friends from another life alone.

"Looking forward to working with him again, are you? You saucy little mudblood!" He said with a bit of a giggle. Hermione turned a disapproving glare his way, he knew how annoyed she got when he called her that, even if he meant it jokingly. "You don't have…a little _crush_ on the Ambassador, do you? Gosh Hermione, if I knew you were into older men like that, I…"

"Please don't finish that sentence, I might vomit." She said, rolling her eyes – she had a good idea exactly what Sirius might have done if he thought she had a fancy for older men.

"I can't put my finger on it, exactly…but I like the Ambassador. There's just something about him." She considered thoughtfully as she crossed her arms across her chest.

"His graying hair? His potbelly? It goes well with his bronzed skin, I think. Maybe I should use a few more tanning charms…" Sirius said, conjuring up a mirror quickly.

"Ugh. Enjoy your new toys, Sirius, I'm heading back to Grimmauld Place." She said before disappearing with a loud 'pop'.

**oooOOOooo**

"Excuse me, Girardo, was it?" Hermione asked meekly as she came upon the old Italian man in the Ambassadorial wing of the Ministry the following day.

"Yes, my dear? Oh! Hermione, isn't it? Hermione Granger?" She looked up, surprised.

"Yes, that's me…" She began somewhat warily.

"I thought so, from the description the Ambassador gave. I didn't expect someone quite so young – I suppose I should have known better, from Giacomo's reputation, but he was just raving about you." Grindelwald, in his guise as a part of the Ambassadorial entourage from Italy, said loquaiciously to the girl.

"Oh!" She said, turning slightly pink again. "Well, I'd just come to deliver a letter of thanks from Lord Black – along with the payment for the brooms. And…I know Ambassador Macilento mentioned that he doesn't care much for flying, but Lord Black offered him season tickets in his personal luxury box – it's two seats all for the Ambassador, actually, whenever he wants them. Lord Black said that he was looking forward to enjoying the games with the Ambassador."

"How thoughtful, thank you my dear. Convey the Ambassador's thanks, if you would, and I'll see to it that he gets the message." Hermione nodded and, after a brief awkward silence where she had nothing else particularly to say, and it was quite above her station as a muggleborn to make small talk, turned to leave.

"The season tickets were a nice touch, my dear." Grindelwald called after her. "From what I understand, Lord Black isn't quite that thoughtful, so if that was your own idea, it was an excellent one. And while Ambassador Macilento cannot _play_ Quidditch or ride a broomstick to save his wand, I do seem to recall Mr. Ferrari inviting him to watch a performance of the brooms, so perhaps he would enjoy the occasional game."

Hermione, who had turned around when addressed, smiled in agreement. Grindelwald seemed to be correct, it had been her idea.

"You know my dear," the man said with the italian lilt of his current persona. "The Ambassador has been under quite a lot of stress lately, and I was thinking, how wonderful it would be to have another employee here at the office – to help take his mind off of excess worries, you know. And since you have a history with the Ambassador – and he mentioned that it was your idea that allowed the superior brooms to be imported in the first place! – yes…I believe we have a job opening for you, should you wish to take it." Grindelwald finished with a smile at the young witch.

Hermione's eyes lit up at this announcement and Grindelwald knew she was hooked; he suspected she had been denied the opportunity of meaningful work due to the discrimination of the Ministry – this had the makings of a loyal follower, in his mind.

"As a recognized separate entity from the British Ministry of Magic, and indeed following the rules of the Italian _Ministero della Magia_, we are of course exempt from any troubles that might arise due to you being a muggleborn and the…unkind shortsightedness of the British when it comes to blood." Grindelwald said, clearly conveying a disapproving tone of the British laws. Hermione seemed to be growing more excited by the minute.

"Are you interested, my dear?" He finally said.

"Absolutely sir! I've _always_ wanted to prove myself in a position like this. I _won't_ let you down, sir. I cannot _wait_ to start." Grindelwald smiled and wrapped his arm around Hermione.

"Excellent. There's some paperwork in my office we can get started on, and then I believe I have quite a bit you can take home with you to get started right away…" It wouldn't hurt the Italian government to actually receive the reports they'd been demanding of Harry and Grindelwald since they accepted the appointment, after all. And Grindelwald knew _he_ certainly wasn't about to do the work. From Harry's frequent descriptions of Hermione in their time together at Nurmengard, Grindelwald was quite interested to get to know the young witch. He _would_, however, have to be very careful that Harry wasn't allowed to spend an excess amount of time with the girl – for his own good, of course.


	6. The Art of Deception

Here's another update. As impossible to believe as this may be, the next story I update will be my very first, Harry Potter and the Unlocked Knowledge – I know many people have been waiting about two years for an update to it, and enough people have begged for it that I finally started writing it. Look for that coming up.

Also, updates on this story and all of my other stories are posted first on DarkLordPotter . net's Work By Author section. If you want the first glimpse of chapters to come of this story and many fine others, be sure to check it out. It's a great forum for critique if you're an author as well.

Thanks to The_Santi (pureb99), Taure, MattSilver_3k, and everyone else who helped beta this chapter, I do appreciate your hard work.

Also thanks to Sesc and sirius009, who pointed out that the scene breaks I was using were cut by FFn's filters. I have changed all the chapters of this story, so they should have scene breaks now – and thus be quite a bit more readable. Sorry about that confusion!

_**Escape to Darkness: Chapter Six**_

_The Art of Deception_

Only three days had passed since Harry returned from Italy; in addition to the normal whirlwind of activity always resulting from the return from an international trip, Grindelwald's news of Voldemort's obsession with finding and killing Evan Rosier was wearing thin his nerves.

The Dark Lord had somehow found the time to research every bit of Rosier's history - and that of his family and extended family - in order to find the suspected traitorous Death Eater. Several other Death Eaters who were close relatives had in fact felt the Dark Lord's Cruciatus Curse for the first time in years as they were questioned about Evan Rosier.

Grindelwald had been copiously taking notes every day he returned from his meetings with Voldemort about the Dark Lord's plans; as of late, Voldemort was planning to assault every possible hideout that Rosier might be linked to, all in one massive coordinated attack by his Death Eaters. Other Death Eaters had remarked that it was almost like the good old days, ten years prior - many were looking forward to the assault.

Harry and Grindelwald also had plans for the night.

"This one." Harry said, pointing to a random photo amongst the pile lying on a large wooden table in their warehouse.

"Muggles currently live there. We could relocate them, but the fact that we did might so be too obvious." Grindelwald said dismissively; Harry shook his head, annoyed at how his every suggestion was shot down.

"Well fine, then you just bloody well pick whichever one you like." Harry said, waving his hand over the photos of possible hideouts of Rosier that Voldemort knew about and intended to attack. Grindelwald considered for a moment, then put his finger on one, sliding it toward Harry.

"This one. I like this one." Harry looked skeptically at the picture Grindelwald pointed out.

"It's a shack. No Death Eaters would be caught dead living in a place like that." He paused for a moment, then reconsidered. "Which means it would be a low priority, so the most incompetent of the lot would probably be sent to check it out." Harry agreed, slowly nodding as he thought over the shack.

"Okay, yeah I agree, the shack it is. But this sounds a bit like walking into a trap, to me, Grindelwald." Harry said skeptically. It was an improvement on his original reaction to Grindelwald's plan, which was to laugh aloud at what he perceived to be the older wizard's joke.

"It is not a trap," Grindelwald repeated patiently. "If you are _expecting_ them. You've already demanded the entire shack be rigged, Harry. And like I told you, the intelligence Voldemort has indicates that this shack is one of the least likely places for Rosier to be hiding. He'll probably send two of his most incompetent Death Eaters. He has indicated that he is going after Rosier manor himself - I managed to convince him that bringing 'Dolohov' would be a good idea. I believe he's going to bring Bellatrix as well, probably to let her play with the family."

"But I still don't understand why we're doing this at all." Harry said, pouring himself another cup of tea and grabbing a scone to finish off his breakfast. He shook the thought from his head that discussing an ambush of Death Eaters seemed an odd breakfast topic. "I mean, if I stay away from the raids, then they don't find Rosier at all and think he's hidden better than they thought."

"Yes, but if two junior Death Eaters are _killed_ at this little hovel belonging to Rosier's mother's family - a _different_ branch of the family with far fewer living relatives than the branch of the family that owns the manor - then it just confirms this idea in Voldemort's mind that Rosier is indeed the traitorous Death Eater. He'll find nothing but the bodies, but the evidence we've planted in his mind will leave him no choice but to draw the obvious conclusion. Any lingering thoughts he might have about your identity will be gone - he will be certain that you are Evan Rosier, jealous of the lives of luxury lead by the Death Eaters now." Harry sighed but acquiesced, looking again at the plan the two wizards had developed.

Two days prior, Voldemort had announced that he wanted any and all information about properties held by the Rosiers, past or present. Grindelwald assumed then that he planned a strike against the supposedly traitorous Death Eater, and planned accordingly. The hovel had been brought forth by a childhood friend of Evan Rosier's, the younger Avery. Rosier had mentioned that it belonged to his mother's brother, who lived there before his mother killed him for being a blood traitor.

Voldemort decided that it was much more likely that Rosier found refuge in the Rosier manor, a stately home near Kent, currently occupied by a different branch of the family. However, Grindelwald knew that Voldemort couldn't rule out other possibilities entirely, and would likely send out multiple small teams to many locations.

"Your precautions are overkill anyway, Harry. I expect you'd have only a bit of difficulty even if you didn't set enough traps to make an unopened pyramid look like a vacation spot. If you cannot defeat a pair of gorillas with wands, then you shouldn't have been practicing gardening charms this past week. I also don't see how your revenge against Lucius Malfoy can possibly end in a way other than him killing you once he finds out, unless you improve as a duelist." Grindelwald was a firm proponent that Harry should be skilled enough with just a wand to take on any number of Death Eaters in a fight to the death. Harry preferred more guaranteed odds, however.

"I believe _you_ were the one who always said, 'A fair fight is when both combatants are too stupid to know to set up an ambush.'" Harry said dryly. "Besides, don't underestimate gardening charms - I've got plans for those. Every one of the candidate houses has trees around it, after all." Grindelwald sent him a curious look at Harry's cryptic commentary, but didn't reply, so Harry sighed and changed the subject.

"Do we have any idea what Rosier looked like? I mean, obviously it would be stupid to go in there looking like Harry Potter. So do I just change some features randomly? I was thinking about some vicious scars, maybe - enough that if I get the hair color right maybe they'll just assume it's Rosier under the scars." Harry suggested. Scar tissue was notoriously difficult to transfigure, but he'd gained such an expertise with cosmetic human transfiguration that he was eager to try.

"Thick scars, Harry? Sweet Merlin, if you spent half the time you spend on cosmetic charms on large-scale transfiguration, you could turn the entire hovel into a persistent Nundu that you could ride straight through Malfoy Manor." Grindelwald said with slight annoyance. "But yes, that sounds fine. Obviously you'd need _some_ kind of disguise, just on the off chance that one of them happens to survive. Be certain that they don't, in fact, survive, though." Grindelwald reminded Harry harshly. Harry nodded as though that were obvious.

"Yes, I know, thank you. And I'll clean up the hovel afterwards, leaving only their bodies and the Dark Mark - it won't even look like a struggle." Grindelwald broke into an almost craggy smile.

"Excellent." Grindelwald watched as Harry carefully ladled out what appeared to be at least a gallon of thick red potion; if he didn't know better, he'd have thought it randomly thrown together ingredients that were on the verge of violently exploding.

Looking at an ornate pocketwatch, he reminded Harry of the time. "It's nearly time for both of us to leave." Harry nodded and gathered up a few last minute supplies for his traps - which caused Grindelwald to shake his head in disappointment, as he thought it unnecessary.

Grindelwald quickly applied his own charms to his person, though, transforming into the dour image of Antonin Dolohov. Quickly conjuring the Death Eater's mask and donning the fine hooded cloak they'd stolen from the real Dolohov before they killed him, both Grindelwald and Harry nodded to each other in passing before Disapparating with the twin cracks of rulers being snapped on a table.

**oooOOOooo**

"Ah, Antonin. You're a bit late - Internal Affairs work, I presume?" Voldemort acknowledged as Grindelwald arrived at prescribed meeting place near Malfoy Manor; they didn't use the Ministry office this time, since Death Eaters other than the Inner Circle would be present. Indeed, it was a gathering of nearly 40 witches and wizards, all hooded and cowled in the typical hood and robes of Death Eaters; a few prominent members of the Inner Circle, such as Bellatrix and her husband, forsook the masks most members wore.

"I was just instructing some of our members about the plan you helped devise." The Dark Lord said, his pale face reflecting the moon's light eerily. He pointed his wand and, as he waved it across the ranks, a full half of the Death Eaters' robes turned stark white. "Those in the white robes will assault four Muggle targets; use Fiendfyre, in the shape of a Phoenix. An informant photographer will photograph the attack, which will understandably be blamed on the Order of the Phoenix malcontents. Dolohov, Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rabastan, and myself will assault Rosier manor." Grindelwald watched as Lucius Malfoy nearly interrupted with the protestation that he would not be accompanying his Lord. Lucius closed his mouth abruptly and clenched his wand, shooting a glare at Dolohov. Grindelwald met his eyes and leveled an emotionless look back at him before turning back to Voldemort as he issued other assignments to the remaining Death Eaters.

"Lucius will take Avery Jr. and the young Mr. Nott to France - we traced relatives there; it isn't likely that Rosier would stay there, but kill anyone you find after asking. And remember Lucius, they're French, so use your best manners." The assembled chuckled slightly at this; Lucius nodded, well used to these assignments after decades of them. Voldemort continued on for some time before all but three Death Eaters had their tasks for the night. Grindelwald was holding his breath - the hovel where Harry was planning his ambush had not yet been mentioned.

"And Nott, Booth, Gibbon. You three head to this hovel owned by Rosier's mother's family. I can't imagine Rosier hiding there, of all places, but I want to be sure. After you three finish there, you may join the others with the Muggles." He said, nodding to the wizards in white cloaks. Nott Sr., Voldemort's oldest Death Eater and valuable ally since their Hogwarts days together, rarely went on missions. Grindelwald suspected that he was only being called upon now because of the need for large numbers of loyal Death Eaters, as well as the unlikelihood - at least in Voldemort's mind - of their being any danger at the hovel.

Grindelwald had deduced that Nott was the closest thing Voldemort had to a friend; he had also aged poorly, which Grindelwald harrumphed at since he was nearly fifty years the Death Eater's elder, and was quite likely the slowest wand out of all the Death Eaters. Though Harry wasn't confident in his dueling skills, Grindelwald suspected that even without tricks, Harry would be more than a match.

Knowing he would soon be dead, Grindelwald found himself somewhat morbidly fascinated at how Voldemort would take the news.

"Go. Find Rosier." Voldemort hissed. When most of the rest had disappeared, he turned to the four he would accompany to the Rosier manor.

"The protections are formidable - we can only Apparate to the edge of the grounds. Come." The five of them disappeared in a cacophony of 'crack's and reappeared in front of a large wrought iron gate.

Bellatrix and her husband made to raise their wands, but Voldemort held up his left hand in a fist, signaling them to hold. His own wand came up, and his eyes - usually so carefully transfigured to blue - flashed to red as he pounded against the protections of the manor with silent magic. While the first few spells seemed to only shake the gate slightly as they collided with it, the third and fourth dented it; the fifth and sixth spell twisted the gate and attached fence viciously, and the seventh blew the gate straight off its hinges. The ambient magic lent a silver twinkle to the air as the protective magicks failed.

The four Death Eaters strode boldly forward, but Voldemort was faster still. In a move that amazing Grindelwald, who knew that such magic was deemed impossible, Voldemort's lower body seemed to explode into smoke, and he shot off like a bullet into the air, flying toward the Rosier home. Grindelwald had to wipe the astonished look off of Dolohov's face, but wasn't quick enough.

"I know, it still amazes me every time he does that, too." Rabastan said with a grunt; the four took off at a run across the well-manicured lawns to the manor proper, and they arrived just as the front door - two ten foot tall, thick doors, were blown clear off their hinges by the Dark Lord.

While he had previously mocked his ability to lead, and the fairly pitiful attempts at subterfuge, Grindelwald had to admit that Voldemort was a damned powerful sorcerer, if nothing else.

"Find the family. Bring them here. If you find Evan Rosier...kill him and bring the body." Voldemort said, his fury written all over his face and further disrupting the transfigurations that gave him a more human appearance.

The ritual he used must have included unicorn blood, because Grindelwald did not know of anything else that could so curse someone that powerful magicks just dissipated like that.

A thorough search of the manor revealed five habitants; Grindelwald found the children, and quickly also summoned up and stunned the House Elves.

"Excellent thinking, Dolohov...perhaps a bit overly cautious, but better than the alternative." Voldemort said approvingly. Grindelwald tried to look as obsequious as he could.

The family was Silenced, and tied up with thick chains that were spiked, no doubt quite painful if they moved - conjured by Bellatrix. Voldemort waved his wand at the Elwood Rosier, the patriarch of the family.

"Where is Evan Rosier?" For his part, the old man looked flabbergasted. Grindelwald knew that Voldemort was using Legilimancy on him, but also knew that the Dark Lord would probably not trust it; while uncommon, Occlumency was certainly not an unheard of art amongst purebloods.

"I don't...he's dead! Years ago - Moody got him, you _know_ that!" Grindelwald, too, looked into the man's eyes and tried to see past the immediate fear - that was always the most difficult part about Legilimancy used in conjunction with torture. Well, that and going insane yourself, but a wizard of Grindelwald's caliber was in little danger of that.

"Then why would I come here tonight?" The interrogation strategy was good - even Occlumens usually only prepared themselves to block out a certain sort of thought from their head; by asking questions they didn't assume you'd ask, it was possible to surprise them, and get at thoughts they would otherwise want to keep hidden.

Elwood Rosier's thoughts, however, were clear. '_Because you've finally gone off the deep end, you crazed half-blood!'_ Grindelwald kept the smirk from his face, but only barely. It seemed that Rosier had a few memories of Tom Riddle, who had taken to calling himself Lord Voldemort in Rosier's final year at Hogwarts, as a young man. Rosier hadn't thought highly of the burgeoning Dark Lord, even if the boy had been a bit of a prodigy.

Voldemort found Rosier's thoughts to be less amusing. "Bella." He said simply, giving a nod to the witch. She jabbed her wand cruelly at the eldest Rosier and snarled, "_Crucio_!" Rosier fought against the curse at first, but was soon writhing under the insane woman's tender ministrations. His screams were bloodcurling.

Voldemort held up his hand once more, and Bella paused in her torture, panting heavily as though aroused. Voldemort waved his wand at the Rosier family, who had been screaming protestations under their Silencing charms, and the wife's voice became audible.

"-op it! You bitch!" She spat at Bellatrix once she realized she could yell once more.

"Where is Evan Rosier?" Voldemort said, repeating the question. He had calmed down now, probably having come to the conclusion that if Evan Rosier was alive, these family members didn't know it.

"I don't know you evil, filthy mudblood! And even if I did, _Tom Riddle_, I wouldn't tell a half-blood like you anythi-" Her diatribe was cut off when Voldemort nodded to Bellatrix, who repeated her judicious use of the Cruciatus Curse on Mrs. Rosier. Grindelwald had seen in her mind that she had once been a classmate of Tom Riddle's; even fancied him at one point in their fourth year, though he had ignored her rather blatant display of interest.

Grindelwald reflected that he had never learned as much about Voldemort's past as he did while he was torturing former classmates who he believed to be sheltering a traitorous Death Eater - it was quite enlightening.

The three younger Rosiers, cousins who were staying at the family manor of their patriarch for the recently-begun summer holidays, also knew nothing about the whereabouts of Evan Rosier. After he let Bellatrix have her fun with the Cruciatus, though none of the Rosiers were yet driven insane, he held up his hand a final time.

"Should I kill them, my Lord?" Bellatrix asked hungrily. Grindelwald was almost amused at how much like a rabid dog she was.

"No. Dolohov." He said. Grindelwald stepped forward, his wand at the ready.

"Yes, my Lord." Voldemort turned to him, eyeing the Rosiers distrustfully.

"I believe it has been some time since we sent a messenger to the Giants. You speak some Giant, do you not?" Back under Silencing charms, the Rosiers were merely weeping at their inevitable fates.

"I do, my Lord." Grindelwald likely spoke far more Giant than Dolohov ever had. At the possibility of being sent as the envoy for Voldemort, Grindelwald's mind whirled - there were so _many_ possibilities for the clans of his old allies.

"Excellent. I believe this family might make an interesting show of good faith, don't you?" Voldemort said, his mouth twisting into a hideous approximation of a smile.

"I do agree, my Lord. Especially the young girl, if I may say so." Rabastan and Rodolphus smirked at this comment as well, and Voldemort nodded in approval.

With a few twists of Voldemort's wand, the Rosier family had been transfigured into doormice. Grindelwald himself conjured a small cage to house them, after Stunning the excitable mice-Rosiers.

"I shall leave to parlay with the Giants at once, my Lord." Grindelwald said, following the Dark Lord out the blasted entryway of the Rosier manor.

"_Fiendfyre!"_ Bellatrix yelled, followed by her husband and brother-in-law, burning down the ancient home.

"See that you do, Dolohov. And Antonin - find someone else to do your paperwork. You will not be late to another of our gatherings." Voldemort said, eyes flashing before he transfigured them back to their original blue with a swish of his wand.

"Of course not, my Lord." Grindelwald said. He watched Voldemort disappear with a soft 'pop', and, alone since Bellatrix and her ilk were still playing with Fiendfyre, Disapparated with an even softer 'pop'. Some things were just a matter of experience, after all.

**oooOOOooo**

Far away, on the eastern shore of England just south of where Hadrian's wall once stood, three figures dressed in black cloaks appeared all at once with the sound of a car backfiring. It was just close enough to the rocky shore to hear the occasional crashing of the waves when the tide came in; after their arrival, the waves ignored the interruption and resumed their rhythmic lull.

Their appearance seemed to go unnoticed - a spattering of trees dotted the property and cordoned it off from its neighbors, though several large houses could be seen far in the distance, and indeed a small village was not far to the south. Even if they were noticed, the residents who'd lived in the village for any time would always be the first to say that they remembered odd happenings coming from that little cottage surrounded by trees. Even now, children dared not play - the hovel exuded wrongness such that not even the thrill of rule-breaking could change their minds about the place.

Of course, the children nor the surrounding residents knew that such a stain was the result of dark magic, practiced for hundreds of years by the family that owned the cottage.

Now, however, the three men in black cloaks were quite surprised to see a single light coming from the cabin; their heads turned as they exchanged meaningful, surprised looks - obscured by the silver masks they wore, perhaps, but still recognizable as meaningful.

"It looks like...a lightbulb swinging from a rope." One of them whispered to the other two as he peered cautiously at the window. They were all surprised at this - their Lord had said it was unlikely for anyone to be at the cottage.

"Seems like one lightbulb wouldn't give enough light for a whole cottage, assuming its not actually _that_ small on the inside." Nott said, curious at what it might mean. Nott was many years Rosier's senior, but while they might not have known each other well, Nott thought he at least knew Rosier's type - the younger Death Eater was much like Lucius or Avery, involved in the politics side of things and caught up in the excitement of learning forbidden magic at the foot of the most powerful sorcerer the world had ever known. He expected that if Rosier was actually using this disgusting shack as a hole to hide in, that it was luxurious inside. But then, thirty years was enough time to change a man.

The faint rustling of the trees in the wind caught his ear, and Nott suspiciously looked back at the trees. There seemed to be more of them than before.

"Booth, Gibbon...did there seem to be this many trees here before?" He whispered furiously. As he glared at the trees, almost daring them to draw closer, they merely swayed innocently in the wind.

Something wasn't right. Nott had survived a long time as a Death Eater - and he had never been even an average duelist, before age and neglect slowed his reflexes further - and had done so principally by choosing the correct time to strategically retreat.

Letting the two younger Death Eaters advance ahead of him, Nott fingered his wand anxiously before deciding that a confrontation with Rosier would be better if Voldemort himself were leading the charge. He twisted on the spot and felt the familiar pressure of Apparation as he disappeared.

He reappeared with a thunderous crack twelve feet up and cried out with pain. He landed with a thud that knocked the breath out of him, and immediately began coughing furiously.

Booth and Gibbon had, at the crack of Apparation turned around and threw curses. A nasty dark red curse flew from Booth's wand, his long hair swept back from the force of it, and Gibbon let loose a purple hex. Both met empty air, as Nott was on the ground, still coughing slightly, and dragging himself on the ground. Upon trying to stand, Nott realized that his right foot had been violently splinched off above the ankle; the foot itself was nowhere to be found.

"What the bloody hell, Nott?" Booth demanded, eyeing the fallen Death Eater. "There's nothing out here and you _splinch_ yourself?" Gibbon was fighting a smirk, at the sight of the rich pureblood patriarch crawling on his hands and knees.

"There must be," Nott managed to say between gasping breaths. "Some kind of Anti-Apparation Jinx...that splinches you."

Booth looked skeptical, but kept his doubts to himself as he eyed the trees once more.

When they had arrived, only a thin copse of trees had separated the bit of Rosier property from the surrounding Muggle area, and other Muggle houses had been visible on hills surrounding the property.

Somehow, the property had _grown_; no longer were any Muggle houses visible, and the trees - no, the _forest_ they found themselves in the middle of was vast, stretching as far as any of them could see. And what was worse, the clearing was noticeably smaller than before.

"Nott..." Booth said warily. "I think you might be right about the trees."

Booth was helping Nott get up - Nott had delicately conjured a crutch, and was careful to avoid the raw wound where his shin simply ended - when Gibbon let loose a surprised scream.

"The roots! _Lacero! Lacero!"_ Gibbon cried out frantically, unleashing two Slicing Hexes at the vines and roots that Booth and Nott noticed were starting to crawl up his leg.

"_Sectumsempra!"_ He screamed at the closest tree. The trees had not only grown more numerous, but larger - the Dark curse sliced through the tree, but Gibbon had not planned on it being over fifty feet tall, and massive in girth. Nor did he account for the fact that it might fall forward.

"Run!" Booth yelled over what sounded like a crack of thunder as he saw the tree lean perilously. He scrambled forward toward the hut, as did Gibbon - who shot out a few more Slicing Hexes, just for good measure.

Without his foot, however, Nott was in no shape to run. Instead, the experienced Death Eater scrambled backward, toward the encroaching forest. Gibbon and Booth saw him use his good foot to jump just clear of the trunk of the fallen tree before it slammed into the ground with a thunderous boom.

The two Death Eaters covered their eyes at the dust and dirt that the fallen tree stirred up, and the impact knocked both of them on their feet. In the wake of the tree falling, there was only silence, and it ominously weighed on the two Death Eaters; Nott hadn't made a sound since the tree fell.

"Bloody hell! Nott!" Gibbon called out warily, a beam of wandlight illuminating the forest as he swept the area. "_Reducto_!" He said, carving a sizable tunnel through the trunk of the fallen tree. He had to stoop, but made his way through to the other side where Nott had fallen.

Nott was nowhere in sight, and the forest had grown to cover all of the area on the far side of the tree.

"Gibbon, get the fuck back here, are you crazy?" Booth hissed, breaking the heavy silence that had enveloped the still forest. Booth himself was still backing away from the murderous trees, toward the shack.

"Come on, let's check out the shack and get the hell out of here!" Booth said, his voice only quavering slightly as he attempted to point his wand at all the trees at once.

"Fuck the shack, I'd get out of here right fucking now if we could. But you saw Nott...I've never even heard of an Anti-Apparation Jinx that just splinches you all to hell." Gibbon replied, sweating slightly under his mask. Booth grunted his agreement, mostly just glad that Gibbon had gotten some sense and joined him in getting as far away from the trees as possible.

"But as long as Rosier is in the shack, we kill him and the enchantment dies with him. So let's kill the bastard and get the hell out of here." The two Death Eaters faced the door to the shack now, and could see it better in the moonlight.

It was even shabbier than it looked from afar - the wood that made up the exterior was half-rotted; the door was ill-fit, made up of uneven planks of wood, and the light from inside was clearly visible from under and over the door.

Booth raised his wand, glancing at Gibbon - Gibbon didn't have seniority over him, but Booth knew that Gibbon was quite a bit cleverer than him, so it wouldn't hurt to listen to his suggestions on occasion. Gibbon nodded seriously, standing beside Booth with his own wand raised, ready to curse anyone inside.

"_Confringo!"_ Booth yelled, blasting the door off of its hinges.

As soon as he had, the world became very confusing for the Death Eaters. Gibbon thought he heard a loud noise, but couldn't be sure - it was only brief, and then he heard nothing at all. And for some reason he swore that he was flying on a broom all of a sudden, but that was impossible - he hadn't brought a broom.

He also felt burned, and totally winded, but when he tried to breathe, he knew he only coughed violently, even though he couldn't hear himself do it. The feeling of flying - and not just flying, but flying like a lunatic, with barrel rolls and loop-de-loop - had ended when he suddenly found himself back on solid ground. He'd landed on his elbow, and with such force that he was fairly sure he'd torn his own shoulder clear off. Fighting to breathe, he merely succeeded at moaning miserably. Fighting back the intense vertigo from his flight, he failed and vomited as he tried to get up off the ground.

With some difficulty, Gibbon tried to piece together what was happening, as he focused on the vomit now dribbling from his mask. When they'd blown open the door, there had been some sort of explosion, he concluded through the fogginess of his addled brain. He still couldn't hear - he reached up and touched his ear, and found blood in a trail down to his neck. Gibbon was no Healer, but he suspected that his loss of hearing and the blood trail were connected.

A glance to his right confirmed that Booth was also on the ground - and in worse shape than himself. Burns marred Booth's face - the entirety of it was at least bright red and blistered, and he could see that the explosion had melted his partner's skin clean off. It was a hideous sight to behold, and if Gibbon hadn't emptied his stomach moments ago, he would have done more than dry heave at the sight of his fellow Death Eater.

Booth opened his mouth in what Gibbon presumed was an agonizing scream, and just lay on the ground, not even attempting to get up. Gibbon, however, struggled to his feet. He wasn't sure what kept him going - perhaps it was morbid curiosity. He doubted it was any sort of loyalty to his fallen Death Eaters; with what had happened with Nott's attempt at Apparating, a good argument could be made that Gibbon just couldn't think up an alternative to trying to kill Rosier. Having his head rattled in an explosion hadn't helped, he thought miserably.

Gibbon pulled himself up to a full standing position and, his left arm and shoulder not responding, lit up his wand in his right hand, despite being left-handed. Yet another handicap he felt he could ill-afford. Luckily the Killing Curse had no foolish wand waving - and his target this evening had given him plenty of rage to fuel the Dark curse.

Gibbon eyed the floor near the door to the shack suspiciously. Despite it being charred from the explosion, he saw that the floor was slightly damp and stained slightly red; whirls of smoke were still rising in wisps. Gibbon eyed the floor distrustfully, but seeing no other option, he hopped over the potion-soaked section and landed heavily inside; his left arm jarred painfully as he landed, and he thought he might have hissed in pain - without his hearing, though, he couldn't tell if he'd managed to stifle it.

The inside was as shabby as the outside - and not even magically expanded as Gibbon had expected. The ceiling in the corner away from the chair was patchy, and water damage was obvious on the nearby wood walls. The shack was sparsely furnished, with only a brick hearth - a cauldron was sitting above the crackling fire - and a high-backed luxurious red chair facing it broke up the monotony of rotted wood walls and concrete floor. Fortuitously for the Death Eater, the chair was occupied.

"_Everbero! Avada Kedavra!"_ Gibbon yelled, throwing the chair out of the way with a banishing charm before blasting its occupant with the Killing Curse.

Too late, he noticed that Nott, still missing his foot and clearly wide-eyed with terror since his mask was also missing, was in fact the previous occupant of the high-backed chair. Life left his eyes the instant the sickly green curse impacted him with the typical rush of wind.

Gibbon's ears suddenly erupted in intense pain as he heard a sucking _schloop!_

"Argh!" He cried out, dropping his wand to clutch his ears. Amazingly enough, he could hear his own cry this time. Fumbling wildly, he grabbed for his fallen wand and dove behind the fallen chair.

"Rosier, you bastard! _Avada Kedavra!"_ Gibbon cursed. Rosier almost casually ducked beneath his high flying curse. Gibbon got a good look at Rosier now - the man's face was an almost solid mass of scars, including half of his scalp in a what looked to be a poorly healed Dark cutting curse.

"I thought you'd appreciate the return of your hearing." The dark cloaked Rosier said mysteriously. He leveled his wand at Gibbon, who simply ducked lower behind the chair.

He did not count on it wrapping itself around him, his arm pinned to its armrests.

"No! Fuck, Rosier!" The scarred Death Eater did not respond. The cords in Gibbon's well-muscled neck pulsed as he struggled to break free from the imprisoning chair, and he abruptly shot off another curse, having retained his wand as the chair captured him. "_Avada Kedavra!"_ He spat viciously.

Rosier side-stepped the curse easily, and without a word ripped Gibbon's wand from his hand, slipping it casually in his pocket. "You should have worked on adding some variety to your spellwork. Even the Dark Lord doesn't exclusively use the Killing Curse. It is, however, a very useful curse. _Avada Kedavra_."

A rush of wind seemed to tousle Gibbon's hair slightly as he saw the burst of green light come toward him. Gibbon knew no more.

With a few twists of his wand over his scarred face, Gibbon's attacker changed his appearance dramatically. He opened his mouth wide and seemed to stretch it out, raising his eyebrows and stretching that part of his face, as well.

"Scar transfigurations apparently make your face cramp. Noted." Harry Potter said with a somewhat detached tone.

**oooOOOooo**

After a late night of slaughtering Death Eaters, Harry found his morning quite relaxing. Grindelwald had not returned from the previous night - Harry assumed Voldemort had discovered his handiwork at the shack, and Grindelwald's absence was related to that somehow - and so Harry visited St. Mungo's in the guise of the affable Henri Desjardins.

"Good morning, Henri. My, that bush looks wonderful - who would have thought you'd be a dab hand at Herbology?" A medi-witch exclaimed, stopping at Henri's creation in the atrium of the hospital.

"Actually Charms, my dear." Henri said with a wink at the stout witch. "And I zink you could 'ave guessed that I am charming." He finished with a bright smile that she returned happily as she laughed and moved on with her day.

Since Harry had begun volunteering at the hospital in his ploy to seduce and separate Narcissa Malfoy from her husband, he had almost thought of it as a sort of penance. It was not beyond him that his revenge against Malfoy and the Death Eaters for his imprisonment had collateral damage; while Grindelwald shrugged it off as necessary and irrelevent, Harry at least felt better about it when he volunteered at St. Mungo's to help pay off his karmic debt.

There was also the fact that he had burned down a part of the hospital, and owed them for that, as well.

Ignoring that, however, Harry continued shaping the St. Mungo's garden atrium centerpiece into an homage to - and perhaps a mockery of, in the eyes of some - the golden statue in the Ministry of Magic. Instead of a House-Elf, centaur, wizard, and goblin, however, Harry's arboreal statue had a large and small patient, a young medi-witch, and a large Healer smiling over them holding a clipboard.

"Henri, that looks wonderful!" Narcissa Malfoy said demurely as she approached him once he finished and took a few steps back to check his work. She offered her hand once he turned to her, which he kissed politely before embracing her in a more intimate manner, and kissing both of her cheeks.

"Well, Narcizza dear, when I am surrounded by a beauty like you, 'ow can I 'elp but attempt to create beauty in all zings?" Harry said, finishing with a wave in the vague direction of the new greenery.

"You are certainly a man of many talents, _Monsieur_ Desjardins. Gardening charms, of all things...they fell out of favor decades ago, I believe!" She said in a somewhat surprised tone. She had flushed prettily at his earlier flattery, before offering her arm, which Harry gladly took, holding the older woman close to his side.

"Well, as I said before, beauty can be found in many zings - I am particularly good wit' ze flowers, I zink. But really, a beautiful garden is zimply a neccezzity at any manor, I zink. Wizout a garden it...falls flat?" Harry continued chatting aimlessly. Of course, gardening charms were a rather recent skill that he'd perfected, despite there being a fairly definitive tome on their myriad uses during his imprisonment. They were some of the charms he'd used on the forest the night before, as a means of scaring the Death Eaters into being sloppy; it had worked perfectly, in his own opinion.

"Of course, Henri, and I agree totally - at my manor, we have gorgeous gardens, complete with peacocks! In the spring, the colors are simply wonderful; and the aromas! If I could bottle the scent of my gardens, I would run WonderWitch products out of the perfume industry." Harry laughed appropriately at her somewhat snide tone.

"I could use such a perfume myself after today, I'm afraid...I will be cleaning ze used potions supply room; it is a dirty task, ze ozzer volunteers 'ave said." Harry said with distaste that wasn't entirely feigned - during Hogwarts, his least favorite detentions were scrubbing cauldrons with Snape, and this brought back a few unwelcome memories from his distant past.

"Well luckily, Henri," Narcissa began with a cheshire grin. "I drew the same task for today, so you will at least enjoy good company."

Perhaps the undesireable task would not be so bad after all, Harry reconsidered, as a large grin lit up his own disguised features.

Unlike detentions with Snape, volunteers were encouraged, and expected, to use magic. So scrubbing cauldrons, flasks, and bottles was at least not quite as bad as Hogwarts. Harry began the series of charms with a broad wave of his wand so that the brushes stood at attention.

Narcissa started a few tasks with a bored look, and buckets were filled with water and Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, which was a potent enough cleanser to clean off the remains of even the worst Potions accident from cauldrons, Harry well remembered.

A few more waves and swishes of Harry's wands set the brushes to scrubbing, and while Harry still conducted their actions mindlessly, he turned to converse with Narcissa.

"So, Narcissa! It has been some time since we 'ave 'ad a chance to talk, I zink...whatever is going on in your life?" He asked with the excited grin of someone who hadn't spoken to their close friend in nearly a week. He had actually taken the Lady Malfoy out to lunch in norhtern France again just after he returned from Italy as Giacomo, but since then he had been in quite a whirlwind, and had not had the opportunity to see her again.

"Well, Henri, I've been quite busy...this is actually the first time I've had to volunteer here in a week!" Harry was surprised at this, as he'd come to know that Narcissa rarely missed a day of volunteering. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who worked here to pay off some karmic debt.

"Yes," she continued at his look of interest. "Dealing with the aftermath of the fire at the satellite hospital. My husband Lucius funded it, you know." Her face grew taught with anger as she admitted this. "And I come to find out that his unwillingness to fund it past a certain point was the reason that they avoided security measures like Fireproofing Charms - which would have saved the building, the life of the man who died in the fire, and thousands of galleons of medical expenses for burn victims - patients and Healers and medi-witches alike! Not to mention Lucius himself suffered some burns and nearly died in the fire!"

Harry put away his wand a moment and held Narcissa's hand compassionately - though in truth her words merely added fuel to the rage he felt for Lucius, shortchanging a hospital on safety measures. "'Ow 'orrible, Narcissa, zat you have to deal wiz such zings! Why is Lucius himself not 'aving to worry about it?"

A stormy look crossed her face, and Harry knew he'd said exactly the right thing to the distraught witch. "Lucius is still recovering from the fire, and is much too fragile right now to deal with such matters." She said as though the line was rehearsed. "Or at least, that's what I was told by that tart of a medi-witch he has attending to his every need, even after all this time. As if she doesn't think I know _exactly_ how long burns take to heal! He could have regrown a liver after this long! Why he insists on being coddled like that, I have no idea, but he's only spent a few hours at home this entire week!"

A flash of insight hit Harry, and he had to fight off a smirk on his face when he realized how perfect the plan that just came to him was. The easiest way to convince Narcissa to be unfaithful to her husband was to convince her that he was unfaithful first.

And this medi-witch looked to be the perfect person to arouse Narcissa's suspicion.

"Of course, my dear - the whole zing seems very suspicious, almost like zere is more going on zan just 'is recovery!" Harry said nonchalantly in the ridiculously accented English of Henri. Narcissa's eyes narrowed, and Harry could almost see the wheels in her head turning. She brought her left hand up to her mouth worriedly, and her eyes narrowed just a fraction.

"Do you," she began with a slight tremble. "Do you think there _is_ something more going on between them, Henri? She is...a _much_ younger witch than I am..."

"Narcissa," Henri comforted, drawing closer to her as he took her trembling hand in his own. "Lucius would be a fool to cheat on such a wonderful woman! If it is true...well, 'e wouldn't deserve you!" Harry said, intentionally doing little to quell her burgeoning fears.

"But let us not dwell on such zings, my dear! So tell me about the problems wiz rebuilding ze ozzer 'ospital?" Harry changed the subject, allowing Narcissa to dwell on those thoughts for a while; he paid only cursory attention to his horde of diligently scrubbing brushes and cauldrons lined up to receive their cleaning as he turned to the distraught witch.

"Oh yes, the hospital...well, as I said, it was originally funded by Lucius - only at my request...well, demand, really. I'm sure you've heard of a bit of...reputation...that surrounds my husband. I merely thought that such a donation would help stop the awful whispers. And, of course, I'd been volunteering at St. Mungo's for years, so I knew exactly how badly they needed the extra space. And now, with it gone...well, as I mentioned, it appears that due to some fiscal...tightfistedness...may have contributed to its destruction.

"With me in charge, however..." Her look grew serious. "You can be assured that no security measure will be sacrificed. This facility will be state of the art, with no corners cut. There are some complications, however...the Creature-Induced Injuries Ward is the "Dangerous" Dai Llewellyn Commemorative Ward, and the proprietor of that trust is Einion Llewellyn; he's a good man, and generous, but he and Lucius never got along. Negotiations were tough to get him to agree to housing the ward in Lucius' auxiliary site in the first place, so I'm not certain he'll even agree at all."

Narcissa looked away then, and somewhat worriedly admitted, "And I'm not even sure I blame him. I could hardly believe the liberties Lucius took with the drastic security cuts. I'm not sure I'd want a commemorative ward to be overseen by him!" Narcissa finished, slightly red faced but unabashed at her scathing review of her husband.

"Zat is truly horrible, Narcissa." Harry said as he comfortingly put an arm on Narcissa's back, rubbing small, comforting circles with his thumb rather intimately. "Would it 'elp if I perhaps talked to zis Loolin? Lowoolin? Zat is a difficult name, I zink!" Narcissa smiled appreciatively at Harry, who gave her a charming smile as he butchered the name.

"Llewellyn, Henri." She said through a smile that brought out slight dimples in her cheeks. "And...well, I'm not certain it _would_ help...After all, technically you'd have no business at the meeting..."

"Well we will 'ave to change zat, zen! Whatever you were planning on spending to build it, I will contribute ze same - and it will zerefore simply be better and more beautiful. _Ce sera magnifique_, I'm sure! Now we are equal partners in ze new 'ospital, and 'e cannot object to my being zere." Narcissa's face lit up at Harry's proclamation. The fact that he didn't actually have an enormous fortune that he wanted to spend on the project was only a minor hurdle; Grindelwald would literally have killed him if he'd spent most every knut of the Gamp fortune on such a thing.

"And I zink I have ze perfect crew in mind to build ze 'ospital, Narcissa. Zey did work on Beauxbatons, and I zink ze French Ministry as well - it will be ze most beautiful place in England, I zink!" Narcissa was too caught up in the plan now to object to anything he said - at least, he hoped, since Harry was just planning on getting Grindelwald's help to permanently transfigure everything in the hospital, and not actually hiring a construction crew.

"Oh Henri, that sounds wonderful! I hadn't even begun to think about plans like that yet. I just knew I wouldn't be using the same shoddy crew that Lucius did when he built the original hospital extension. And you're right, if you're a partner in the sponsorship of the hospital, then Einion couldn't object to you being at the negotiations with him! Although..." She stopped for just a moment, looking as though she was almost embarrassed to continue.

"Are you sure that you could contribute the funds necessary to _double_ the cost I was going to contribute? I'm certain that the funds could be put to excellent use in the construction, of course, but...well, Lucius spent nearly tens of thousands of galleons on the original building. With the cleanup of the old building as well as the additional costs of doing the job _properly_." Narcissa took just a moment to look properly upset at her husband again. "I daresay the estimates could run up to thirty or even forty thousand galleons."

Harry adopted a thoughtful look as though he was considering this, even though he of course had no intention of contributing anything but his time and spellwork to the project. "Well, Narcissa, as you have mentioned to me before, ze children are ze ones who use ze Dangerous Creatures ward ze most. And zat would be in ze new building. Dearest Madame Gamp, before she passed, said zat it was ze children zat she wanted to support ze most, wiz 'er money. I zink zat a new 'ospital for children would be somezing zat she would want to contribute to. I will dedicate some of my resources to making ze 'ospital an enjoyable place to visit for ze children, I zink. Alzough, how enjoyable can a 'ospital be when you get trampled by Abraxans?" He finished with a laugh; even Narcissa smiled appreciatively - but then, he'd just promised to donate forty thousand galleons to her cause, so he wasn't surprised that she appreciated his humor.

"Oh Henri, this is going to be marvelous! And you and I will have a marvelous time planning out the hospital, I think - I have some _wonderful_ ideas - I really can't imagine why Lucius didn't consult me before building the other one. And I just know you'll have some marvelous ideas as well, of course! Oh! I'd best Floo Einion and set up a meeting. And I'll try to keep it short, I know how you've said that you detest meetings." She said, still clutching his arm and talking a mile a minute with excitement.

"Perhaps a lunch meeting would be better for you, Henri? A bit presumptuous to take Einion to France for our usual international lunches," she said with a slight blush. "But there is a rather nice restaurant I can get us a table at near Diagon Alley...the only entirely wizarding restaurant I know of, actually - it's very exclusive. If you haven't been there before, you'll just love it, I know! Yes, we really must go to the Sló, I think, for business like this. It's only proper, you know!" Harry wasn't quite sure what exactly Narcissa was talking about, but decided judiciously that smiling and nodding was never a bad idea.

"Well there's so much to do, Henri, I'm afraid I simply _must_ get started with it! You don't mind if I leave you behind here, do you? Excellent - I'll be sure to owl you the luncheon date with Einion, then!" Narcissa raised herself on her toes for one final hug with Henri, and also kissed him appreciatively on the cheek, before flushing slightly and leaving the room, presumably to begin the myriad of plans that Harry had helped set off.

Harry had little real experience with women - its sum total amounted to a blissful month or so in Italy - but was rather certain that the lingering kiss on the cheek was less on the friendly side of gestures, and more a sign that his plan to steal away the wife of Lucius in order to completely unravel his life was succeeding.

The cauldrons scrubbed clean despite his inattention to them, he set the storage room back in order with a few grand swooshes of his wand, and quickly Portkeyed to the Italian Ambassador's office in the Ministry of Magic; Narcissa's mention of an owl reminded him that he had not checked the mail there - or even stopped in - for several days.

He nearly bowled over an unknown witch when he appeared.

"Oh good heavens!" The familiar voice cried out as she was essentially tackled by Harry's arrival. Harry got a very unpleasant sinking sensation in his stomach when he realized just who the witch he had ended up on top of was.

"Who are you? What are you doing in the Ambassador's office? Get off of me!" Hermione Granger screeched indignantly. "_Excuse me!_ Put your hand there again and I _will_ curse it off!"

Harry got up with whatever remained of his dignity - on an unrelated note, Hermione had continued to fill out rather nicely - and smoothed out his robes by running his wand over them, fixing his hair with a similarly simple charm that left it perfectly wavy.

"Excuse me, miss." He said, still shocked at seeing his childhood friend in his office. He only then realized that Henri Desjardins had no business in the Italian Ambassador's office; and especially no business with a Portkey taking him there directly.

"I believe I asked what you're doing in the Ambassador's private office! And however did you get a Portkey here? I was told those were restricted to diplomatic personnel only...Wait a minute, I recognize you, you're Henri Desjardins! You're in that _Witch Weekly_ magazine Tonks reads all the time," Hermione said, wide-eyed in confusion.

Things were quickly going downhill, Harry realized. He saw no way out of his predicament. Well, besides the obvious.

"_Obliviate!"_ Harry said almost regretfully. He grabbed his mail and Apparated with a 'pop' back to the warehouse he and Grindelwald kept under the Fidelius Charm. He had a feeling the old wizard had some explaining to do.

"Wha? What happened?" Hermione said to no one in particular as she looked around in confusion at the state of the Ambassador's office.

Hermione took careful stock of the state of the office - she made sure to keep the Ambassador's office immaculate, even though she had yet to see him step foot inside of it. But now, the papers she was carrying were spread all over the floor - almost as though she'd dropped them - _or been attacked!_ And...the Ambassador's mail that she'd delivered in a careful pile was missing!

Noting an odd soreness, she peered down the neck of her robe, and saw the redness of what were clearly fingers on her breast.

Quickly throwing Floo Powder into the fireplace, she called out, "Department of Magical Law Enforcement!"

When the face appeared in the fire, before the DMLE agent could even say a word she cut in, "This is Hermione Granger in the Italian Ambassador's offices in the Ministry. There has been a suspected intrusion, theft, assault and Obliviation of personnel. Send an investigator immediately!" She said before pulling her head out of the fire. She chewed on her bottom lip nervously, but vowed that whoever did this would _not_ be getting away if there was even a _shred_ of evidence.

**oooOOOooo**

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